Like a Prayer
by Mer3Girl
Summary: Connor was aided by a prostitute to help him escape during the Boston Massacre years ago. Now a man, he returns to Boston to find her singing in a tavern. He sparks life in the overused woman with his blunt naïveté and disinterest in her services. Little does she know, her friendship during his battle becomes his saving grace. OC modeled after Marilyn Monroe.
1. Introduction

_**Like a Prayer**_

* * *

_Summary_

Connor was aided by a prostitute to help him escape during the Boston Massacre years ago. Now a man, he returns to Boston to find her singing in a tavern. He sparks life in the overused woman with his blunt naïveté and disinterest in her services. Little does she know, her friendship during his battle becomes his saving grace. Four year affair. OC modeled after Marilyn Monroe.

* * *

_Introduction_

The Assassin

"Thou shalt not kill"

He was orphaned at the tender age of ten, watching his mother burn in the merciless flames. He swore to hunt down the man responsible, and thieve him of his very life. Many years later, with a change of his name and the hard training from a master assassin, he earned his entry into the Brotherhood of Assassins. These assassins are sworn to strike down the opposing brotherhood of corruption, the Templars. Split between heritages and identities alike, he fights for one purpose: freedom. In this purpose, he masquerades as a Reaper in a white coat, collecting the lives of opposing men with the piercing of a hidden blade through their beating hearts. Is this considered murder? Yes. Are these murders for the greater good? Yes. Was Ratonhnhake:ton, or Connor, sure of himself and the destiny that lay before him? Certainly not.

The Prostitute

"Thou shalt not commit adultery"

"You are tainted! I was never meant to give birth to you!" And with that said, her mother attempted to assault her illegitimate child. Escaping the turmoil of her mother's mental illness, she ran away at the age of twelve to seek a sanctuary. Somewhere, anywhere. She did not care where. Finding her bundled up little body in the last pew of a church, a sympathetic man had taken her in to his home when attending the said church for a weekly confession. This ended up not being her sanctuary. She was kicked out into the street years later by the man's wife when accused of seducing her husband. In actuality, it was he who had committed adultery. She had refused to submit after he sexually assaulted her behind a closed door. From a street girl to Boston's top prostitute, MaryLynn sacrificed her body to keep a roof over her head. Despite sleeping with married and single men whose names and faces she could not recall, she kept her crucifix close to her heart, praying for a sanctuary...maybe even for someone...to grant her peace.

When these two people meet in the midst of a riot, a bond, surpassing both friendship and romance, begins to blossom.

A sanctuary in the form of flesh and blood is granted to the overused woman, while the gentle understanding and the passion of a woman becomes the saving grace for the Reaper in a white coat.

Though this bond was meant to be, it was never meant to last. Like a prayer, the pair was strong throughout the years, only to end like the final breath when the time came.

This is a collection of the moments between Ratohnhake:ton (a.k.a. Connor) and MaryLynn Mortenson.

* * *

**Rated M:** rape scene, sexual themes, and future sex scenes


	2. Sweet Boy

**_Chapter 1: Sweet Boy_**

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_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn Mortenson, Madame, and the Maverick brothel._

_Italics: _Sentences in italics indicate Connor thinking/speaking in his native tongue. This will apply to future chapters as well.

**Warning**: Rape scene towards end of this chapter. I tried to make it as brief as possible.

_*Update 7/9/13*:_ The rape scene was shortened and details omitted. The full version is provided on **Archive of Our Own** (**MarilynMunster** is my pen name). I did this to be safe with the rating and to comply with rules.

* * *

_Boston, March 1770_

Rocks were projected like silver bullets from the riotous crowds. They have had enough of being whipped around like ragged dogs by the British soldiers and the unseen force that was King George II. As wads of saliva were spat on the ground the British "red coats" stood upon, a dozen or so of the said soldiers thrust collections of angry colonials against building walls. Their bodies collided and clashed, backs crackling against the bricks as they shoved forward, trying to be freed of the red coats. Few people were able to escape this entrapment, slithering their way out of the entanglement of limbs. One of them ran into the alleyway away from King's Street, struggling to ease the violent thrashing of her heart.

A young woman, on the verge of turning twenty-one years of age, grasped at her chest as she struggled to breathe. Stumbling over her numb feet, she slowly made her way to a fairly quiet section of the alleyway, her unoccupied hand shaking as it anchored her weight against the brick wall of a building. The pounding of her heart, the rush of thick blood pumping through her veins was deafening as she leaned her back against the wall.

Flashbacks of the crowds drowned her dizzy head. She could still see the colonists bearing their teeth in fury, tumultuous over the ongoing mistreatment from the red coats at the Charter House. These recent moments all danced wildly before her mind's eye. The uproar was too much for her senses. To be entrapped between the bodies of strangers and a brick wall was pure torture. Even an inch of movement was not permitted by the thrusting arms of the red coats and colonists alike. A wave of panic had given her enough adrenaline to push through the bodies, freeing herself. Dear Lord, she thought she would die of fear in that pit of sweating bodies! The crying of scared children was the last straw to escalate her peaking anxiety. A sense of no escape in a pool of bodies terrified MaryLynn into yet another episode of panic.******

"Ea-ease me, Lord," the young woman sputtered, clutching her wool handkerchief tightly in a small fist.

As soon as the rhythm of her breathing stabilized, the high-pitched wheezing coming to a stop, a shout from a nearby rooftop had captured her attention. Whipping her head towards the source, the young woman came to find a man in a blue coat aiming his musket down at the crowds below. 'Wait...he is about to shoot the people below! They are innocent!' Her heart threatened to quicken once more, feeling helpless as she stood in the snow. Before she could gasp aloud, a Native boy appeared like a phantom in animal skins behind the man, slitting his throat with what appeared to be a weapon resembling a hatchet. Covering her gaping mouth with both palms, she watched the scene unfold from below.

She mumbled with utter melancholy, "What has this land come to?"

"Your plot is ended!" the Native boy seethed, grabbing the man by the collar of his navy blue coat.

Chuckling, the man replied in a hoarse voice, his eyes glinting with mischief, "Not...quite."

Another shot of a firearm shattered the silence and noise. However, neither man nor boy was struck down. It came from another source that MaryLynn could not see. With the uprising tenors of screams, a hideous composition of gun shots are set off, the echo reverberating forever in her mind. She knew that innocents met their untimely death. At least the Native boy tried to stop this evil..

* * *

An accusatory point of an index finger withheld more power than any human could imagine.

Slander.

Betrayal.

Connor feared that he might collapse over the rooftop with the storm of emotions in his belly. In the depths of his heart, the heart of a child and a fighter alike, he silently prayed that his own father would recognize him and save him.

Alas, it was not to be, signified by a pointed index finger in his direction.

He watched as several people were shot to death on the street, women and children howling with cries. His heart stopped beating in that moment. His dark eyes met the smirk of Charles Lee, who stood atop a roof across the way. The smoking pistol in his hand seemed to mock Connor as its black smoke permeated proudly into the air. '_Curse you, Charles Lee!_' his thoughts seethed. Yet again, he was unable to save people from this horrid man.

There was no time for nursing emotions. He had to disappear from the eyes of the red coats, or else the lips of their bullets would surely kiss him goodbye. Jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Connor leaped down to the ground in a section of fenced-in farm animals and haystacks. He set off in a dash, leaping over fences as he disappeared into the alleyway.

He lost the red coats for a short while. It would not be long before they track him down. Unexpectedly, Connor bumped into another body; the body of a young woman. He knocks her down to the snow by accident. No! No, this was _not_ the time to cause more trouble! He helped her up quickly by the forearm, barely feeling her limbs due to the excessive layers of clothing.

"S-sorry, miss," he stuttered bashfully.

"I am fine," she assured him, her voice a breathy soprano.

She looked up at the tall boy, her blue eyes widening with shock. She realized that he was the Native boy from the rooftop just moments ago! She saw him. It was not he who was to blame for the shooting. She knew what she had seen. Her heart could not take any more of this insanity. Oh my, there was blood…Oh dear, the nauseating sight of blood on his clothes. She swallowed hard, trying her best to remain in the moment.

"Y-you are that boy...that Native boy."

"Shh!" he hushed forcefully, grabbing hold of her hands. "Please, do not reveal my presence!"

"N-no, you misunderstand. I saw what truly happened."

He was hesitant, releasing his hold on the young woman. He backtracked against the brick wall, his body stiffening.

"I saw you," she reiterated. "I know of your innocence."

Glancing over her appearance, he figured that the woman was young, but her speech and demeanor were much more mature than he. She couldn't have been an adolescent like himself. Her cheeks were not plump like a young girl, but molded delicately to reveal high cheekbones. Her face was pleasant to the eye, with reddened cheeks and golden curls poking out of the maroon handkerchief scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders.

"Who are you?" he questioned, his eyes darkening with threat, for beauty meant nothing to him in this moment.

"No time for pleasantries," she hushed the boy, a hand cupping along the side of her mouth to amplify the whisper.

She advanced towards him, and pulled him by the forearm to a nearby haystack.

"M-miss, their footsteps!" he whispered frantically, breaking free from her small hand. "I hear them coming! What are you-?"

"Hide in that stack. I'll steer them away."

"But-"

"Trust me!"

Figuring that concealing himself immediately would be wise, the Native boy dove into the haystack, vanishing with just a swift movement. It was not a moment too soon before four men dressed in red coats came rustling about, seeking out the boy with their narrowed, predatory eyes.

"Where has the bastard gone?"

"We just had him!"

"Oh my!" the young woman gasped, feigning a distressed emotion. "Thank goodness you've come!"

One of the men in red finally took note of the young woman, addressing her in a hastened fashion.

"Miss, calm yourself. We are seeking out the boy responsible for the shooting. Have you seen a Native boy pass by here?"

In a dramatic fashion, the young woman fanned out fingers and placed them across her cheeks, her blue eyes wide.

"Oh sir, I-I saw him run down that way!" she pointed towards a direction that would surely take the red coats far away from here. "I didn't know wh-what to do, I-I was so frightened!"

"Miss, calm down. We'll capture the Native bastard and all will be fine."

"Oh, thank you. Thank you, sir," she whispered in a breathy voice, her fingers leaving her face to brush along the man's forearm.

The said man in red cleared his throat and bid MaryLynn goodbye as he and his men dashed away. Once the group of men disappeared behind the corner of the brick building, the young woman listened in for faded footsteps. She then stuck a hand into the hay stack to seek out her new accomplice. Before she could touch him, the Native boy popped out, startling her.

"You sent them away," he spoke as a statement rather than an inquiry, brushing off stalks of hay from his animal skin attire. "Why?"

MaryLynn dismissed his question, deeming it not the most opportune time to explain herself.

"Go in the opposite direction in which they went," she instructed, indicating with an index finger where the red coats had gone. "This will at least grant you more time to escape."

"Why did you help me?" he demanded once more, bewildered by her kindness.

"You are against British authority, yes?"

He nodded. Connor knew that he had to refrain from discussing the clandestine Assassin brotherhood.

"I seek to stop them," Connor informed in a dry, hoarse voice.

"That's all I need to know," she smiled softly, pulling her wool handkerchief tighter around her face for warmth.

The Native boy was lovely. His full cheeks and wide eyes were precious. The freckles splattered across his cheeks had tickled her the most. The people of Boston would speak of his people's savagery, but she saw nothing of the sort. He was so awkward in his demeanor, so unsure of himself despite his attempt at confidence.

He barely met her eyes, looking away as he fumbled with his left sleeve. His shoulders were hunched forward. And yet, she found herself to be warmed by this purity. She urged him to leave immediately. Before he departed, she stood on the tips of her toes to match his height, planting a light peck on his cheek.

"Good luck," she whispered.

He flushes furiously in response to the young woman's affection. Without knowing how to return the affection, he resorted to running away, climbing up the brick wall and window panes with ease. Little did she know, in the shadows some several feet away stood Charles Lee, watching the whole scene unfold before him.

The man snarled, his mustache tickling his thin lips. A treacherous woman helping that piece of garbage? Absurd! That little whore. He had seen her before. She was affiliated with that red haired Scottish woman at the brothel near the Green Dragon tavern. A wicked smirk graced his lips, his mustache framing the sickening expression. The young whore had to learn her lesson; learn whose side truly reigned over her insignificant existence.

Before the blonde woman could depart from the alley, she was stopped cold in her tracks. Charles towered over her, her heels digging into the snow. She fought her limbs to cease their shaking. 'Never let a man see your fear,' she recited in her mind.

"I have seen what you've done. You helped the Native boy escape," Charles stated, looking the woman up and down with his beady black eyes.

"Please, sir," she begged, holding up her palms in a gesture of surrender. "I-I was only- Aahh!"

He thrashed her up against the brick wall, his torso pressed up uncomfortably against her body.

"I know what you are," he growled, smoke ribbons of the cold lacing his words. "You wenches are all alike. That boy is a target! A sweet face comes along, and you coo and sigh."

"You don't understand!"

He spoke no more, sliding his hand up her petticoat and long skirt. She attempted to scream for help, but his free hand covered it, his palm sweaty and tasting like copper. He invaded her inner thighs with his skin-cracked fingers. In that moment, MaryLynn had wanted to die. The vile man's violation of her womanhood continued against her will.

Charles' unforgivable act immediately stopped, a look of disgust contorting his greasy face.

Blood had spilled from her womanhood, staining both his white breeches and her undergarments.

"Blasted woman!" he spat, disgusted by the evident menses.

He pulled out of her entrance, shoving her body down to the snow. She openly wept, pulling up her pantaloons with shaking hands. Her blonde curls poked through her disheveled scarf, the damp hair matted against her cheeks and forehead. The rag that was plugged up her vaginal canal remained inside her. She was humiliated, the blood trickling down her legs, staining her lovely petticoat and pantaloons. Disgusted enough with the young woman's monthly shedding of blood, Charles quickly abandoned her, removing his maroon coat to cover the blood stain on his creme colored breeches. He was at least thankful that the young woman would not be bearing his bastard child.

The woman whooped and cried into the sleeve of her coat, utterly humiliated and dressed in her own blood. For what seemed like an eternity, she finally attempted to pull up her stained undergarments, forcing her shaking limbs to straighten up.

It would be a long walk back to the brothel in this state. At least she wouldn't be pregnant. 'Lord, give me strength. Please...'

* * *

The blonde woman returned an hour later to the two-story house that was the brothel, the Maverick. The candlelight exuded a golden mysticism from the window glass. Her knees buckled, threatening to give way to the cobblestone street. She refused to abide by their wish, the red door of the brothel nearly glowing in her blurred vision. Her trembling hand turned the rusted knob. She moaned at the striking pain in her lower stomach, biting into her lower lip.

Stumbling into the entrance hall, a couple of women gasp aloud at the sight of blood drenching the young woman's lower half. The women rush to aid their sister-in-business.

"MaryLynn, what happened?!"

"Who did this?!"

"Where did this happen?"

The questions overwhelmed her greatly, causing her breath to quicken rapidly. Her throat threatened to close, her eyes bulging with tears. 'Not another episode!'

"Alrigh', alrigh'! Back away, girls!"

A curvy woman with bundled red hair pushed her girls away from the panicking blonde woman on the floor. The blood, the red face, the paralyzing fear. The older woman knew exactly what had happened. She shook her head solemnly, helping the bleeding young woman up.

"It's alrigh', MaryLynn. I'm here, love," she cooed, her voice a gentle alto.

The young woman clung to the woman who was simply known as "Madame." Not one of the Maverick's girls knew of the Scottish woman's real name, actually. Rather odd. The plump forearm served as the young woman's only crutch, both physically and emotionally. Escorting her slowly up the staircase, Madame looked over her shoulder to the pair of overly dolled-up girls below.

"Heat some water an' fetch me some clean rags an' clothes."

The pair stood befuddled, still shocked by the scene.

"Now, damnit! Don' just stan' there like dimwits!" she shouted, the feisty tone returning to her voice.

Ten minutes later, with hot water and fresh supplies, Madame cleaned MaryLynn up in her small bedroom. The water in the copper basin was a deep scarlet from the amount of times blood-drenched rags were dipped. The young woman had not said a word throughout the cleaning, refusing to look at the older woman. Her face had been devoid of emotion, staring off into the empty air. She was unresponsive.

Madame respected her act of silence. In her heyday, Madame was no stranger to such dreadful things. Disgust. Shame. Humiliation. No one would wish to speak of those emotions shortly after a violation such as this. Once she dressed MaryLynn in fresh undergarments of pantaloons and a square-collared bodice made of cotton, the older woman spoke up as she brought MaryLynn to the bed.

"Ay," she sighs aloud. "I'm sorry tha' it had to happen to you, dearie."

MaryLynn finally spoke, her glazed eyes slowly retrieving a human essence.

"I try _so hard_ to stay safe."

Madame sighed, knowing all too well that no one could control everything in life. She briefly knew of MaryLynn's abuse several years ago. It was times like this that the Scottish woman desired to take part in manslaughter, to annihilate every man that ever hurt a woman, whether they be with words or fists or their damn genitals. Her tone became morose, deep as she continued to speak. The wisdom that came with age foretold Madame that no such thing would ever stop violence against women.

"Try as you migh', dearie. Sadly, things like this happen, even when we don' ask for it."

"He saw me help this Native boy," the young woman rasped, slowly pulling the blankets over her body.

"Who is 'he,' love?"

"Lee...Charles Lee did this to me."

"Connivin' insect," Madame spat aloud, mentally condemning the man to hell. "This was over some Native boy? This is wha' this is over?! For Christ's sake-"

"Please, Madame!" MaryLynn retaliated as she sat up quickly, only to regret the pain in her lower stomach that came with the motion. "The boy, he is against the British! He said that he was going to stop them, the red coats. I had to help him."

"You don' listen to a boy, silly girl! He's probably scared, shakin' in his bear skins. Wait, when you say 'boy,' do you mean tha' he is a child or an adolescen'?"

"He's not a child," MaryLynn murmured, bringing the blanket up to her chin as she lay back down. "Probably no more than fifteen years of age."

"I see. Even so, adolescen' boys know nothin', no matter their heritage. They're still children to me. A child isn' going to know how to stop an outbreak from happenin', let alone a political struggle over freedom!"

As Madame shouted, she waved her plump hands about, her eyes enlarged with emotion. She exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her hooked nose. She did not want to upset MaryLynn any further.

"I know you've got tha' 'bleeding heart' and all, but some people you can't go helpin'. You don' know wha' trouble they bring with them."

"I don't care," the young woman retorted, turning over on her side to face the window. "You didn't see him. He tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. Up on the rooftop. All alone."

"You didn' say anythin' about this, did you? They'll hurt you more than Lee did."

"No, I went hiding in the alley after the red coats tried to corner crowds against the buildings. I had another...episode."

"Episode? Tha' panic of yours, eh?"

She could see the back of the young woman's head nod.

"I wish I knew wha' to call tha', dearie. From wha' you tell me, it makes sense you panic over those brutes pushin' you and those people against the wall. You panic over small things too, as if you're abou' to die. I don' quite understand, but I wish I had the cure for ya, dearie."

Cracking her back before sitting down at the foot of the bed, Madame asked the young woman, "Anyway, wha' exactly happened?"

"The Native boy bumped into me in the alley. My panic stopped once I recognized him from the rooftop. He was in danger, and the episode stopped, strangely. I helped steer the red coats away while he hid in a haystack. I wished him luck before he climbed a building to disappear over the roof. I hope he is safe now."

"Wha' am I going to do with you, MaryLynn?" the older woman sighed, standing up from her seat on the bed. "Stay out of this mess. For now, jus' rest. You're not workin' tonight like this."

Walking over to the bedroom door with heavy feet, Madame opened it to shout into the hallway, her head of frizzy red curls poking through the threshold.

"Emmaline! Get your arse washed up, you're up tonight!"

Once Madame left the bedroom, she closed the door shut, leaving the young woman bathed in a comforting darkness. The moon, with no shame whatsoever, exposed herself fully in the violet skies, granting MaryLynn some source of light. Slowly reaching over to an old nightstand of oakwood, she pulled out the single drawer to fetch a treasured necklace. Beads clacked against the wood as she retrieved an onyx rosary, the crucifix hitting against the drawer with a loud, "clack!" She eased back into bed, cradling the beloved rosary in her palms. Her eyes welled with fresh tears as she pressed the crucifix tightly to her bosom, the metal crucifix and onyx beads pressing into the cotton bodice. She never regretted accepting this rosary, even if it's original possessor was her mother.

"You may think I am stained, Mother, wherever you may be. However, I'm still worthy in the Lord's eyes. I hope.."

A mumbled prayer, recited over a dozen times, had finally granted the young woman sleep. Her last waking thought before surrendering to unconsciousness was of the Native boy's round face. His innocent, wide eyed stare when she kissed him for luck.

* * *

Sam had won over the shoppe keeper with grace. Connor should have been relieved, though his shoulders refused to ease from the tension. He had stumbled around the city like a fool, failing at halting the massacre. He growled under his breath, turning away from the conversing men. Once the printing process had begun, Sam bickering with the shoppe keeper, an old copy of the Wanted poster atop the oakwood counter captured Connor's attention. Narrowing his eyes with frustration, he swiped the poster from the counter and ripped it in two.

"Hey, hey!" yelled the shoppe keeper. "Do _not_ make a mess in my shop, boy. I'm doing you and this grown arse over here a favor!"

"Calm down, he's just a child," Sam said, gesturing for the man to remain tranquil. "This kindness will not be forgotten."

"It sure as hell won't, Adams."

This "machine" as Sam Adams had called it was both astonishing and disgusting. Ink on paper without manually writing the words, transposing images onto dozens of papers. How could a machine dictate people's perception of him in such a light, only to change his reputation within a heartbeat? Could he not just defend himself with the truth? The Native boy exhaled through flared nostrils. This journey would surely be a burdensome one. Crumbling the torn pieces of the poster between his large palms, Connor shoved the ball of paper into one of his leather pouches. Perhaps a small fire with these pieces thrown in will cheer his spirits up later on.

It was only a day he had spent in the city of Boston, and already he had started a commotion. In the back of his mind, the young man wished he had never left the comfort of his village.

* * *

A couple of days later, MaryLynn was able to walk without immense pain in her nether regions. She came across a poster of Connor on her way back from the marketplace (Madame needed more fruit and meat for the kitchen). There was a tavern not too far from the brothel where she resided. The Green Dragon. Passing the said tavern by, she captured sight of a fresh poster plastered to the brick wall. The depicted face had a mop of black hair covering his eyes. Only his chin and frowning lips had shown. She stared at the large poster until she recognized that the portrait was of the Native boy. Covering her mouth with her palm, she hoped no one would notice her gawking like a little girl.

He was no longer a wanted man (well, boy) in this town. He was depicted as a hero in this newer version of the poster. It informed of him attempting to stop the massacre, an "admirable attempt, indeed," as was written on the parchment. She sighed with relief. Hopefully, he was alright. With a quick swipe of her hand, she thieved the poster from the brick wall. No one would mind such a menial thing. Tucking the poster in her coat, she walked away as if nothing happened. A charming little memento, no? Now, she could remember that clumsy, innocent Native boy. The portrait did not quite capture his demeanor very well, in her opinion. 'He was much more handsome in person.' MaryLynn smiled, relishing in the memory of his dark, curious eyes, a pout upon his lips. 'I pray for your safety, sweet boy.'

* * *

******_ The "episode of panic" mentioned throughout this chapter refers to what is today known as a panic attack. MaryLynn experiences these episodes now and then, so she would in today's world be diagnosed with a panic disorder. A structured, medical view on Psychology (versus a philosophical sort) did not emerge until the 19th century, so I tried my best to come up with a term that colonials would use._

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_Hello! This is the first bit of my new story for Assassin's Creed 3. I've been working on this idea for quite a while. I don't write chronologically, so the beginning and the ending are written, but not the middle so much. I will do my best to update when I can (life is crazy these days).

Feedback is greatly appreciated! As for my OC, MaryLynn: I chose to create an OC based on Marilyn Monroe because she is one of my idols and I treasure the memory of her. Plus, my Connor/Ratohnhake:ton collectibles are starting to out-number my Marilyn collectibles, haha. The idea was stemmed from arranging figures of them(and I like to experiment).

Happy Chinese New Year, everyone! Best wishes, and seize new opportunities. :)

-take care

Victoria


	3. The Past Comes Knocking

**Chapter 2: The Past Comes Knocking**

* * *

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel._

_The lyrics provided are from the songs:_

_1) "A Man Chases a Girl"_

_2) "Down in the Meadow"_

_3) "I Wanna Be Loved By You"_

_All three songs were performed by Marilyn Monroe._

_Italics: _Used for memories and Connor's native tongue.

* * *

_Three Years Later_

_Boston, 1773_

Traveling to Boston could not have been fast enough for his escalating anger. Each snap of a twig beneath his heavy feet would only further spark his impatience. He was not going to fail to protect his people again. No. Never again. He was no longer a helpless child, being choked by a terrifying man while his people suffered. He had the strength and abilities to stop the injustice this time. And Connor had every intention of doing so. First, he had to swallow down the painful memories that crept their way into his mind.

Erase the fire.

Erase the screams.

Erase the large hand at his throat.

Erase his mother's final words.

_"You must be brave, Ratohnhake':ton.."_

_Alright_...He was alright. Connor returned to the present moment in the comfort of the forest. He could not risk dwelling on this trauma for too long, for he feared that he would stop moving.

The treetops watched from above as the Native assassin dashed away, their branches intertwined like steepled skeletal fingers. 'What is this man chasing _this time, _hmm?' one could imagine what the trees mused over.

_"This man, William Johnson, plans to take our land and force our people to leave. Ratonhnhake:ton...My dearest friend, I had to seek you out. This must be stopped."_

The words of his closest friend, Kanen'to:kon, recurred over and over in his mind, memorizing the new target's name intently as if it were his own. It was a shame that the reunion with Kanen'to:kon was not spent in delight. Guilt gnawed away at Connor's heart, but his determination to seek out the next villain surpassed this emotion. _'I will visit soon, my friend. I promise.'_

A scowl had been plastered upon his chapped lips throughout his trek, having left the Davenport Homestead shortly after whipping a tomahawk into a column. Dismissing the chastising of his teacher, former master assassin Achilles Davenport, Connor had declared a personal war with William Johnson. He had promised to return when this thorn in his side was removed and annihilated to his satisfaction. Lee would have to wait. For now.

"If you embark on this mission, seek out Sam Adams," Achilles had advised earlier that day, concealing his disapproval of his student's actions without thinking.

The journey through the woods would come to a close sometime in the evening, the weary sun giving way to the waking night. The fire lit lanterns and street lamps of the city granted him some relief. He was closer. This relief was soon thieved of him when Sam Adams was nowhere to be found. Connor cursed in his native tongue in a low breath, his fists tightening by his sides. After an hour of interrogating town callers and merchants, he finally received a direct tip from a local printer he once visited with the statesman years ago.

"Ah, Sam's usually plotting away in the Green Dragon Tavern," the shoppe keeper had informed, filing away a day's worth of paperwork. "It's a few blocks down from here. The sign is not hard to miss with that Oriental dragon and all. Say, do I know you?"

"No," Connor dismissed the question curtly, leaving the printing shop in a swift manner.

And off Connor went, tracking down the tavern with ease. Just as the shoppe keeper had promised, a green dragon with a long, serpentine body met his dark eyes. The depicted dragon seemed to grin wickedly down at the Native assassin, for numerous secrets and shenanigans have occurred in this tavern time and time again. Fortunately enough, Connor focused his attention on the entrance door, recognizing Sam. The statesman was accompanied by his long time slave, Surry, who was dressed in a worn out, powder blue coat and white breeches. Connor faintly remembered the young man from years ago. He had been the one to direct him to Sam Adams when Achilles was nowhere in sight after the massacre.

"Samuel Adams," he said the statesman's full name in a commanding tone.

Sam turned around and smirked at how much the Native boy had grown since he had last seen him. He recognized that solemn demeanor from a mile away.

"Connor," Sam greeted with a lazy smile. "What brings you to Boston, my friend?"

"I have been searching for you," he dismissed the friendly chatter, his focus solely on Johnson. "What do you know of William Johnson's whereabouts?"

"William Johnson," Sam reiterated, his eyes drifting in thought.

With a jerk of his head, Sam motioned for Surry to meet him in the tavern. The older man leaned in to speak with Connor in a low voice.

"Be wary of discussing such things in public. Now what has happened?"

"He plans to purchase the land my village lives upon without my people's consent. I need your assistance to track this William Johnson down. Now."

"I see your dilemma," the statesman rubbed his chin, his mind skimming over recollections of Johnson's schemes. "Alright. Have some patience first. We cannot act if not enough information is collected. Let us discuss this over ale, eh? I promised Surry that I would watch him perform with this songstress that's a tavern favorite around here."

Connor merely nodded, his frown easing a tad. At least something was set in motion.

Stepping into the tavern, a wave of warmth and the scent of spiced ale infiltrated his nostrils. The smell was foreign to him, and he was not quite sure if he enjoyed it or not. The corner of his lip twitched. The noise was much too loud for his liking. Sam laid claim on a small table tucked in a corner near the bar, motioning with a wave of his large hand for Connor to sit. Doing so, Connor found himself facing the spectrum of the rambunctious tavern at this late hour.

"It's packed tonight," Sam noted, his light eyes scanning the room as he twisted around in his seat. "Hmm, mostly men. No lady friends for you tonight, I'm afraid."

The older man chuckled, but the Native assassin did not offer a smile. He was not interested in a woman's company at the moment.

"Please, Samuel. I implore you to discuss this issue with me."

"As you wish."

Ordering two ales for them both, Sam informed the young man on Johnson's tea extortion. _'Why delve into this? My people's land is at stake.'_ The statesman proposed that he would aid Connor in preventing the sale of his people's village if he agreed to take part in destroying the tea extortion with, as he called them, "like-minded men." Connor mulled over the proposal. True, he neither expected nor wanted an exchange of favors in eliminating Johnson. However, if this corruption of the tea extortion would feast away at Johnson's power, then the Native assassin was more than up for the challenge.

"I accept," Connor affirmed, his palms pressed face down onto the table.

"Looks like we're in business," smirked Sam as he nodded his head.

The twinkling sound of tickled piano keys struck through the indistinguishable noise of chatter. Voices began to boom in volume as a couple of wolf-whistles sounded off.

"What is happening?" asked Connor, leaning his head over to the side to peer over bopping heads.

"Remember that songstress I spoke of during our rather short-lived reunion at the entrance?"

Connor nodded, still seeking out the cause of this effect on the drunken men in the tavern.

"Look to the staircase to the far right," Sam instructed him with a smirk.

Following the instruction, the young man located the winding staircase to the far right where a woman stood three steps from the floor. Her hip was jutted out to the left, a coy smile curling her berry stained lips. Loose curls of golden hair framed her heart-shaped face delicately, bouncing along as she descended the final steps.

"Did you all come to visit me?" she spoke in a breathy voice, her fingertips reaching up to touch her cheeks.

More whistles sounded off at the woman's theatrical playfulness. Her dress was a rich shade of green, the collar pinned down over her shoulders and collarbone. Connor stared with wide eyes from beneath his hood. The bright smile. The soft giggle. The blonde curls.

He cursed under his breath in surprise.

"That woman," he mumbled.

Connor watched intently as the woman made her way to the piano where Surry sat, warming up his fingers for the night. Looking up from the ivory keys, Surry smiled as the blonde woman leaned over to peck his cheek in greeting. Sam chuckled deeply over Connor's dumbfounded expression, mistaking him for being smitten. Actually, Connor was just shocked to find the woman that aided him in the massacre years ago. He had never expected to be reacquainted with her presence.

"Ha ha! I figured you'd take to her quickly," Sam chuckled aloud. "She sings while Surry over there plays the piano. Quite the prodigy, he is."

"I know that woman," Connor informed sternly, having been caught off guard by the past.

"Do you? Well, say 'Hello' afterward."

"I cannot," he declined, rising from his seat abruptly.

"Connor, stay and relax for a while."

"I am sorry. I must leave."

Whether it was rational or not, he experienced a sense of embarrassment. He hoped that she would not see him, not recognize him. He was just a boy on the verge of manhood at the time she met him in the alleyway. He was so clumsy and inexperienced then. A sweet woman had to help him escape when he initially could not execute the plan on his own. Seeing her on this very night had revived the fumbling boy who was still alive in him.

It was more than likely that she had forgotten him. He did not even know her name, but her face and her smile were imbedded in his mind. Clearing his throat, he pulled his pointed white hood further over his face, keeping his head low as he reached the entrance door. Before he could turn the golden knob, a soprano voice cooed, enchanting his ears. He was stopped in his tracks.

_"A man chases a girl,_

_until she catches him.."_

Rushing to exit the tavern, he slammed the door shut behind him. He could still hear her voice from a nearby open window.

_"He runs after a girl,_

_until he's caught.."_

Such a sound, such a soft voice married with the sombre tune of an antique piano. The noise of the bustling tavern was no longer a bother, for he only heard her singing.

Lingering at the slightly ajar window, he leaned his back against the brick wall, continuing to listen in on the song. Perhaps this visit to Boston wouldn't be entirely disgruntling. He could have departed then. Easily. However, his body refused to budge. He could actually feel his hunched shoulders ease in tension as one song followed another. _'Perhaps I will stay a bit longer,'_ he thought, masking his child-like enjoyment over the melody with duty. _'Just a moment longer, and no more. Then I leave.'_

Connor remained near that window for as long as the woman would sing.

* * *

For the past fortnight, the Native assassin visited the Green Dragon Tavern. He would remain stationed at the open window _only_ if she was present to sing. He never walked in the tavern, strangely. He eventually made himself comfortable outside, claiming a wooden awning above the entrance door as his favorite seat. Connor felt more secure enjoying her voice in the shadows, where she could not see him.

The woman's arrival in the tavern was unpredictable. She was usually late, whether it be for twenty minutes or an entire hour. He knew that she would sing tonight, for he located Surry through the window, preparing himself at the piano. On this night, she did not appear for almost an hour.

Alas, Connor waited. It was none of his business what the blonde woman did with her time. Connor could be seen lightly swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the awning, listening in contently for the woman's voice to make itself known.

* * *

Shallow wheezing escaped her mouth as she desperately tried to breath. The calls of the men in the tavern were causing her heart to palpitate at an alarming rate. Too much pressure, too much demand from a man, especially more than one. She was due to sing downstairs in the tavern an hour ago. However, the suffocation of panic brought the woman to her knees. Madame had arrived not too long ago after being given the message of MaryLynn's episode. She had taken her valued girl to one of the vacant bedrooms upstairs in the tavern, trying to calm down the nervous woman.

"Breathe! You're goin' to breathe, girl! We can't do this every time you go out there! You're perfectly fine fuckin' a man, and yet this frightens you to no end."

"I c-can't...the people, the sounds...I-I can't t-take the p-p-pressure," MaryLynn sputtered, her skin blotched with red in patches.

"Dear Lord, help me not strike this child. I'm gettin' the whiskey. After tha', you are goin' out there. I have to get back to the Maverick."

MaryLynn wrung her quivering hands together once Madame left to fetch the whiskey. Little did the older woman know, MaryLynn usually supplied herself with a flask of either aged whiskey or bourbon strapped to her thigh beneath her clothing. Just in case. However, in the midst of a panic episode, her body was paralyzed by an unseen, nonexistent threat, her body unsure whether to fight or remain perfectly still.

The anticipation of the noises and sights always struck her with paralyzingly anxiety before she went on. Do not mistaken, she had loved to sing beside that lovely antique piano, waving her hands lightly about like dove wings and puckering her flushed lips to achieve the right tune. It was her only escape to a pleasant world.

However, the fear of losing a roof over her head had plagued her for almost a decade. The demands of a man, when the situation was not under her control alone, contributed to the panic as well. As the clientele raised, the number of friends declined. Only Madame, and at times Surry and Sam Adams, was the only people she spoke to. However, lonliness was torture. She strived for just one thing over all these psychological triggers: **control**. What if she failed? What if she didn't get clients? What if she was harmed unexpectedly? What if Madame threw her out of the brothel, ill fated to walk the streets as she did as an adolescent?

The downward spiral of insecurity was debilitating.

The woman was one of the top prostitutes in Boston! Why have such irrational thoughts? Well, that is the mystery of MaryLynn Mortenson. Life seemed in check. She knew what to say and what to do, even_ how_, in order to gain what she needed from men. And yet, an impending doom and constant sense of danger never left her heart. Two different people co-existed within her curved body: the vixen with all the charm in the palm of her hand, and the virgin with the shame of a stain on her womanhood.

"Here," Madame returned with a shot of luke warm whiskey, kneeling down to the seated woman as if giving an infant warm milk. "Drink this down and get out there."

The blonde woman nodded timidly, accepting the glass without meeting Madame's gaze. A few sips down her parched throat, and she relaxed within ten minutes. The interchanging of the two personas occurred once the woman stood up to walk to the staircase, leaving a tired Madame to herself.

"Now _I_ need a bloody drink. Damn girl drank it all!" mumbled Madame, sighing aloud.

Descending down the winding staircase, the quiver of MaryLynn's lips formed into the smile of a confident, sensual woman. Her fingertips traced along the oakwood railing slowly, the sensual feel of the polished wood ever so delicious.

The men cheered and howled at the sight of the fair haired woman in the pale yellow dress, her smooth shoulders exposed. Winking, the quiet voice from before had changed into a sultry tone as she cooed, "Sorry to keep you waiting, fellas. I just couldn't decide what to wear for you tonight!"

Laughter erupted at the light joke.

Whiskey was her medicine. Singing was her pride. Sex was her business. Beneath it all, she was a little girl frightened over ending up on the street again. Alone. She wanted to be remembered, whether it was for a good roll in bed, a kind word, or a sultry, soft voice. Her pain was molded into a carefree, sensual performance for all to see. The pain then, and only then, was shelved for a while.

'Thank goodness Madame had extra pins to alter this dress!' she thought with gratitude, referring to the pulled down collar. Quickly, she met with Surry at the piano. Occasionally, two other men, a violist and a flutist, would join. They were nice enough, but it was Surry whom she got along with famously. His impeccable rhythm with the keys and her velvety soprano went hand in hand. He was a quiet young man, but he warmed up to MaryLynn over the past year that they had worked together. A prostitute and a slave. Seemed like an interesting duo.

* * *

Sometime into the performance, Sam had located the Native assassin in his usual spot, lost in his own world as he listened to the woman sing. He was immersed in the woman's voice, his anger and obsessive determination soothed for a while. Shaking his head, Sam had had enough of the young man's reluctance. Sitting outside the tavern like an eager peasant child? _Really?_

"Blast it, Connor! Just introduce yourself to her!"

"No," he responded, his focus retained on the window.

Sam found himself chuckling softly, his impatience wavering. After all his years of red-hot fury, the older man had found ways to find humor in situations to alleviate himself. No need to yell.

"Woman troubles, my friend?"

"I do not understand."

"Do you..how do I explain this..do you _fancy_ her? Hence this reluctance to just say, 'Hello, my name is..' Surry works with her, you know this. He can introduce you."

"I still do not like that you own a man."

"Now don't change the subject on me," Sam chastised, knowing full well not to go into _that_ conversation with Connor. "What is so opposing about simply talking to the woman?"

"Oh," he exhaled aloud, turning his body around to look down to Sam. "It is not that it is opposing. I barely know her, and she serves me no benefit in my mission. I see no purpose in making myself known."

His firm, matter-of-fact statements caused the statesman to laugh aloud. The Native assassin found business in everything he encountered, and handled them as such. The iron mask of stoicism never faltered. However, seeing Connor in such a relaxed state when listening to MaryLynn sing left Sam pondering over the young man's inner self.

"Connor, Connor, Connor...Perhaps it is a good thing that you are not a romantic man. 'Assassin' seems to suit you just fine, my friend."

Connor dismissed Sam's musings, turning back to his original position on the awning to listen in on the next song.

_"When Mister South Wind sighs in the pines,_

_old Mister Winter whimpers and whines._

_Down in the meadow, under the snow,_

_April is teaching green things to grow."_

"She starts again," Connor said, leaning forward to hear better. "This song is my favorite, Sam. Listen."

"I'll listen with you if you promise to actually go in the damn tavern this time. I hear she does more than just sing," Sam suggestively hinted at her other "profession."

"It is a difficult time. It is not unheard of to work in a tavern and tend to farmland," Connor reasoned with raised eyebrows. "What else does this woman do?"

Sam had chosen not to enlighten Connor on prostitution and wooing women altogether. He had neither the energy nor the patience to educate the oblivious young man.

"No. Nevermind," he said, rubbing his eyes before looking back up at Connor. "I'm going in for a drink. You're free to join me."

Sam made his way to the entrance, pulling open the heavy wooden door. After mulling over the trivial (in his opinion) proposition for several moments, Connor jumped down from the awning, acceding to Sam's offer. The statesman stood at the doorway threshold, smirking over his victory in persuading the bull-headed young man. Connor did not look him in the eye, his stance low and heavy. He did not even admit to his curiosity over the woman. Too proud. Much too proud.

"What of Johnson?" Connor decided to initiate a conversation. "Do you have any new information?"

* * *

Three songs had passed before an odd figure entered the tavern. A man in a long white coat, pointed hood hung low over his face, had entered the tavern abruptly with Sam Adams. His low stance and reserved manner was enough for MaryLynn to cock an eyebrow. The man strolled with heavy feet, yet he did not move like a baboon. He was rather graceful in his movements, omniscient of his surrounding with quick turns of his head. He made his way through groups of socializing men with a shift of his shoulders as he followed Sam to the far end of the bar. MaryLynn could not see most of his face, for the white hood with a pointed tongue concealed it well.

From what she could discern, he had downturned, firm lips and a strong chin. Her blue eyes flickered with curiosity as she watched the man-in-white sit down on a stool, Sam Adams taking a seat on the man's right side. The statesman chuckled as he patted the man's back. Some kind of joke shared? She did not know. The pair of gentlemen huddled at the corner of the bar, conversing in low voices with their heads ducked. 'I've seen that man speak with Sam before. Odd. Surry hasn't mentioned anything about a man in a white coat. So strange.' Luckily, she was on a five minute break, resting her voice as she observed the pair of gentlemen from a several feet away.

MaryLynn's mouth parted slightly as she intently watched the man-in-white's lips move. They were not as firm as she thought before. There was a plumpness to them now that he relaxed. He mouthed his words slowly, with intent. His face, or what she could see of it, did not falter with any emotion whatsoever. Amusingly enough, Sam was the one with his heart on his sleeve, his face a one-man show altogether. Perhaps he experienced enough emotion for the both of them.

"Hey, Mary," came a voice from behind, her name phonetically sounding like "merry" from his mouth.

It was Surry. He had politely retrieved the woman from her trance. He was comfortable in his addressing her over time.

About a year ago, Sam had brought Surry to the Green Dragon Tavern for an ale or two to listen to folk music. From what she could see, Sam was generous with the owned young man. The charming tune of tickled piano keys had perked the young man's ears. Sam's wife had taught Surry how to play the piano years ago when he was first acquired. According to Surry, Sam had that infamous twinkle in his eye before addressing the previous pianist, requesting he allow Surry to play a melody or two. Once his slim dark fingers graced those giggling keys, the rest was history.

It wasn't long before Surry had encountered MaryLynn, who at the time started singing in the tavern to add to her business. Surry hadn't a clue as to what she did outside the tavern. He never felt the need to ask. The twosome started evening performances at the Green Dragon, and have been doing so ever since. With her velvety, breathy voice and his flawless talent for rhythm, the two got along famously.

Once his address reached her ears, MaryLynn's eyes shot open while her cheeks were stained with red.

"We have two more songs left," Surry continued. "Which one would you like first?"

"Oh," she sighed, her eyes drawn to the ceiling as dozens of lyrics sounded off in her mind. With a flicker of her eyes, she smiled warmly, whispering to her partner her selection. She cupped her palm around her mouth to amplify the whisper. He nodded, smiling at her selection.

"You always save that song for last," Surry grinned widely.

MaryLynn giggled, covering her berry stained lips with her hands for a moment.

"It's my favorite! I cannot help it," she admitted, removing her hands from her lips when she spoke.

If it was a show they wanted, then a show was what they were going to get.

A short, chipper melody opened the song, the undistinguishable chatter beginning to soften. Gliding her small hand along the rim of the piano, MaryLynn cooed the beginning of the song, expanding her diaphragm as she places her other hand upon her chest.

_"I wanna be loved by you.."_

A couple of whistles sounded off from the bar before she continued.

_"..just you, and nobody else but you. I wanna be loved by you...alo-oone."_

As the song progressed, Connor leaned his head over to see the woman embrace herself with curled fingers, her eyelashes fluttered shut. She was in a world of her own creation when she sang. Feeling heat rise to his cheeks, Connor resorted to leaving the tavern before she saw his face. Bidding Sam a quick goodbye, he rose from the wooden stool. Sam, being the older gentlemen with more experience, shook his head as he grumbled, "I will _lock you up_ with a woman one of these days, I swear."

Looking up at Connor, he spoke over the chatter and singing.

"You have no hesitation when infiltrating a fort. And yet, a woman shakes you to the bone! Dear Lord.."

Connor ignored the statesman's frustration. He did not see the importance of gaining this woman's attention. She was just another person. Yes, he was grateful for her kindness three years ago, but he needed nothing more from her. He thieved a glance at the singing woman as he made his way through the crowd. Her blonde curls framed her face nicely, softening the sharp structure of her cheekbones and jutting chin.

She was a little flushed from the constant movement about the piano and the projection of her voice. Surry would occasionally look up at the woman and smile. Seeing her sway her full hips, her hands coyly placed upon them, Connor could not deny to himself that there was something alluring about her. He could not identify the reason why. He just enjoyed it. He refocused his gaze onto the entrance door. Connor's upper lip twitched as he swiftly turned his gaze away, quickening his pace to the entrance door.

MaryLynn was not oblivious. The slight twitch of his lip did not escape her. A woman always knew when a man was intrigued. Grinning, she looked over in his direction, approaching the end of the song.

_"I couldn't aspire to anything higher...than the desire to make.._you.._my own,"_ she coyly points with her index finger at Connor, who just opened the entrance door to step outside.

A couple of men seated at a table near the entrance door argued over who she was pointing to.

"It was _me_!"

"No, you arse, she pointed at _me_!"

Some men knew well enough that she pointed at the man-in-white. He did not acknowledge her gesture, instead closing the heavy, wooden door behind him.

'_She cannot see me,'_ Connor thought, furrowing his brows. '_I have nothing to offer her. I will at least see her home before I seek refuge for the night._' It was the least he could do for the woman who gave her kindness to a complete stranger such as himself.

Back in the tavern, the blonde woman felt slightly offended, pouting her lower lip. She resorted to shrugging her shoulders, waving her hand in the air in a dismissal of the man. 'I can get another man's attention just fine, thank you very much.' However, she was intrigued all the same. 'Not so easy to bend my way,' she noted of him. 'This fascinates me. Why so repelled by me, I wonder? He's a full grown man. A woman is probably nothing new to him. Probably has a wife. I can respect that. I suppose.'

* * *

The cool air was a godsend to her heated skin as she exited the tavern, her schedule permitting her room to breathe. She was free to return to the brothel, but a quick break alone would serve her nerves well. Thank goodness she was not working tonight! Another man's poor attempt at what he called "sex" was not welcomed tonight.

The chilling weather was a pleasant caress to her face, neck, and shoulders. MaryLynn felt overheated from the nervous tension and the energy she poured into each and every song. Her heart beat rapidly. 'My gosh, does any one else get this flustered? No wonder people drink themselves silly.'

Her hand automatically reached for the flask beneath her petticoat, a brown leather harness strapped to her shapely thigh. Little did Madame know, MaryLynn kept an extra ounce or two of whiskey in a black leather flask in case of another panic episode. Whiskey seemed to do the trick for the past couple of years or so. However, Madame, and Madame alone, supplied her girl with alcohol, fearing that if she had her way with the bottles, she would end up a pathetic drunk like other girls in the business.

'I can hold my whiskey just fine,' MaryLynn thought as she drank in a plentiful gulp of the bitter gold elixir

"Ay, you be sharin' tha' with meh?" an intoxicated man with a heavy accent approached her.

His movements were sloppy and his eyes were glazed over. MaryLynn cleared her throat, the whiskey granting her confidence.

"No, sir," she politely declined, flipping on her public persona of the breathy-voiced damsel. "I am so parched from singing, and even a girl needs a little kick to calm down."

The drunken man chuckled, a cough or two escaping his phlegmy throat. MaryLynn arched an eyebrow, twisting the lid back onto the flask.

"I'll help yeh calm down, missy," the drunken man slurred.

He tripped over his feet as he pushed himself towards her, planning to pin her against the wall. Her heart was close to ceasing its rhythm, but MaryLynn channeled her anger the way Madame taught her.

"When a lady says _'no,_'" she began, her damsel persona faltering immediately, "she means _**no**_!"

She kicked the man's shin with force, causing him to yell out. Using the heel of her palm, she struck it up, under the man's chin. He grabbed hold of his screaming limb, his eyes shut tightly as his chin throbbed with pain.

"You wench! I oughta...!"

His speech was slurred, incomplete. His actions took over as he advanced to strike the woman with his fist. Before he could do such a thing, he was seized by the forearm by another, taller man. Surprised, the drunken man stumbled about before being tossed aside like a rag doll to the ground.

The man-in-white.

MaryLynn absentmindedly dropped the flask to the ground, the "fwop" of leather hitting the stone ground unheard by her ears. She was surprised by the sudden scene. The man in the white coat looked down at her, his expression stiff. Standing at a full six feet, he towered over the blonde woman. Seconds before he could advance towards her, she forcefully pulled off her shoe and projected it at the man's face with all her strength. To her dismay, he blocked the shoe with his forearm. He bent down to retrieve it from the street.

"Stay back!" she warned him, her stance widening in case she was required to run to safety.

The man simply looked down at the black leather shoe in his hand, then back at the threatened woman.

"Why did you throw this shoe at me?" he firmly questioned, his tone irritated. "People usually _thank me_ for helping them."

"You _scared_ me! I was almost assaulted by a stranger, and you honestly think I will trust another one that approaches me? At this time of night?"

"My intention was not to _scare_ you, but _help_ you."

"I can handle myself. It's not the first time some creep tries to hurt me."

His frown deepened, clearly not understanding her defensive nature. She was rescued. End of story. Realizing that the man-in-white had meant no harm, MaryLynn sighed aloud. After years of avoiding assaults, and recovering from them, she vowed not to find herself in such situations ever again. The man had not harmed her. He could easily have done so, but no such thing occurred.

"Forgive me, sir," she exhaled, her stature straightening up. "It's been a long night, and I am usually panicky. It's dark outside, and I have to be alert, even if I just come outside for a moment."

In a subtle transition, the frown became a neutral expression upon the man's chapped lips. He nodded, gesturing his acceptance of her apology. His silence still made her uneasy.

"Thank you for helping me."

"You are welcome."

"May I have my shoe back?" she requested, reaching out her hand as if the shoe would automatically drop into her palm.

"No."

"Pardon me?" she jutted out a hip, placing a hand upon it.

She was baffled by his answer, her eyebrows knit together as her nose crinkled.

"You threw this shoe at me," the man reasoned, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "What makes you think I will return it to you, only for you to throw it again?"

He was almost amused by her pout, her flustered expression. He was reminded of the children of his tribe who would sulk after losing to a game of hide-and-seek. Of course, Connor was usually the victor. The smirk quickly vanished as he surrendered her shoe with a proposal.

"If you promise not to throw this shoe at me again, I will return it."

"Fair enough."

She wobbled forward to retrieve the shoe, hopping on the foot that was not bare. She stumbled, only to be caught by the man. Looking up, she found that his plump lips and strong chin looked familiar up close, especially the copper skin. She strained her vision to see his eyes, swimming in the shadow cast by his hood.

"Do I know you?" MaryLynn drew out the syllables of her question.

He did not answer, releasing his hold of the woman as if she were hot coal. Connor felt too embarrassed to tell her who he was: the clumsy boy in the peak of his teenage years, running away from red coats. Even telling her that he had stopped by, night after night, to hear her sing as he hid away from sight was something that he was not comfortable admitting. Would she deem him rude? Strange?

The blonde woman seemed harmless enough. Looking down onto the shorter woman before him, he pulled back his white hood, revealing his deep set eyes and high forehead. Her nose crinkled as she examined his face. MaryLynn remembered those dark eyes, the furrowed black eyebrows. Those...those _freckles_! Yes! She _did_ know him!

"You are that Native boy from the massacre a few years ago," she sputtered quickly.

His voice had deepened even more since then. The plump fat of youth was long gone from his face, a chiseled visage of high cheekbones, distinguishing nose and chin, and a high forehead having made their way. Even his build was different. He had grown a bit in height, and his body was bulked with muscles. He became rather-

"Handsome," she whispered under breath.

"I am sorry, but I cannot hear you," he said. "Please, speak up."

She smiled at his overly proper speech, her teeth bared as her lips curled back. He cleared his throat, suppressing a pleasant reaction to her warm disposition. He surrendered the little hostage that was MaryLynn's shoe. Possessing the shoe once again, she leans down carefully, slipping it back on her bare foot.

She stalked off to retrieve the fallen flask from the ground. Shortly after dusting off the object, she lifted up her dress and petticoat to stick the flask back into the leather harness strapped to her thigh. The Native assassin did not leer as a colonial man would. Instead, he looked down at his fingerless leather gloves, picking at the material pedantically. 'Odd one, he is,' she mused, taking note of the man's awkward behavior. 'Has he not seen a woman's thigh before? He's much too handsome to be a virgin. I wonder if he is celibate.'

"What is that you are trying to conceal?" he questioned her, clearly avoiding the sight of her.

Her analysis cut short, MaryLynn shook her head, refocusing on his inquiry.

"My flask. I need a sip..or two..of whiskey from time to time to relax," she informed him, slightly embarrassed by that fact.

Her eyebrows suddenly raised up, realizing that she had revealed a secret to a stranger.

"Don't tell anyone. Please? If word gets out that I drink in secrecy, Madame will get upset if she suspects I drink more than I should!"

Ceasing the picking away of his leather gloves, Connor tried to meet her worried gaze.

"I will not tell if you do not tell of my appearance. I suspect my reputation here may not remain in high regards soon."

Brushing off her wrinkled pale yellow dress, MaryLynn straightened her posture. She carefully imbibed the sight of his face once more, trying to recall his adolescent appearance.

"I never asked you about your purpose years ago. You tried to stop a man from shooting innocent people. I assumed that you were on the side of freedom. I'm hoping you still are?"

His face became serious, staring directly into her eyes without discomfort for the first time that night.

"Yes," he spoke with command, his voice further deepened.

"What is your name? I've wondered this for years. Please, do not tease me," she said playfully, her voice a soft breath.

He was conditioned long enough to give his adopted name rather than his birth name. However, he sometimes wished that he could recite his birth name without someone butchering the pronunciation.

"Connor."

"Connor," the blonde woman reiterated, smiling over the manner in which the sound played upon her lips and tongue. "I am happy to see that you are alive and well."

She walked up to Connor, pushing herself up on the tips of her toes to chastely kiss him on the cheek. She lingered on his copper skin, reluctant to pull away. To her surprise, the Native assassin's torso jolted before suddenly backing away from her touch.

"D-do you need me to accompany you home?" he immediately escaped the situation with a firm inquiry, the woman's touch too overwhelming for him.

Bewildered by his apparent aversion to physical contact, she decided to spare him the embarrassment of the moment by going along with his diversion.

"My 'home' is only a few blocks away. I will be fine, knowing you are around. I thank you, truly."

She hesitated in telling him more of her residence, which was the brothel a few doors down. She did not want to be rude and ask of his awareness of her services. Business was business, and she played the game well with singing in taverns and rocking beds several nights a week. The young man did not come across as a typical, sex-famished man, bored with his married life and troubled by the political struggles. Quite frankly, she could not discern if he was sexual at all! Was there such a thing in a man who was clearly not a monk? As intriguing as Connor was, she did not deem him beneficial to the brothel's business. Oh well. No matter.

"Miss," Connor began.

"You can call me MaryLynn," she interrupted to inform him.

"Sorry. MaryLynn...I had known that it was you, from the massacre. Forgive me, but I have been coming to this tavern for the past few nights, listening to your singing. I do not know if this is offensive or-"

"Oh, Connor!" she chuckled, mercifully ending his fishing for the proper English words and customs. "I'm flattered that you visit, you silly man. Do you really like my singing?"

"Very much," he answered eagerly, a hint of childish glee peaking through.

The woman covered her bashful grin, her eyes flickering as they look up to the night sky. She returned her gaze to Connor, removing her hands from her grin. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes as he picked at his fingerless leather gloves once again. A nervous habit of his.

"I'm so happy to hear this," MaryLynn admitted.

At least he came to hear her sing. That fact alone made her heart swell. He nodded his head, a partial smile given as he glanced at her face before looking away. Her wide smile and bright eyes possessed a warming air. Connor thieved one last glance at the woman's face before he turned to leave. He bid her a curt goodnight, looking over his shoulder.

"Wait," she quietly requested.

He turned back to face the blonde woman, who rubbed her arms for warmth. What MaryLynn was about to ask was out of the ordinary for a woman of her profession. However, a man who was painfully shy, with an aversion to touch; a man who bore no interest in seeking out her services in the bedroom had inspired her to reach out as a woman of heart.

"Come visit me sometime and say 'Hello.' I live at the Maverick just down the block. Be sure to provide your intention so no one mistakes you for someone else."

"I will," he gave his word.

She looked him over once more, smiling to herself at the bulky coat and collection of weapons strapped to his waist.

"You look like you have a thousand and one stories to tell," she mused aloud.

Connor was not quite sure over the specific number she mentioned.

_'I don't think I can provide her with a thousand and one stories,'_ thought Connor. _'One or two, perhaps. But even then, why would she want to know?'_

As he turned to leave for good this time, he dashed past the tavern to turn a corner into the back streets, disappearing like a white phantom into the shadows.

"Just don't fret if you see a naked woman walk by when you visit," the blonde woman murmured, beginning her walk to the brothel. "_If_ you visit. I hope you can at least be my friend."

* * *

**Author's Note:**Oh my gosh, thank you so much to those who have read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story! I greatly appreciate you taking time to read this story, and hope you are enjoying it so far. I like to take my time to edit and perfect a chapter, so I'll try to keep updates weekly. If not, it is because I am perfectionist. :P Sorry this chapter was long. I wanted you all to see Connor and MaryLynn reunite. The next chapter will not be as long.

Remember the number One Thousand and One. It will make sense in Chapter 4. ;)

_*Update 7/9/13*: _Concerning the piano-I am using Artistic Licensing in order to compliment the Marilyn Monroe montage that I intend to use in this story.

Thank you once again! Have a lovely week, everyone. :)

~take care


	4. Of Pedestals and Closed Windows

**Chapter 3: Of Pedestals and Closed Windows**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel._

_Italics: _Memories and Connor speaking/thinking in his native tongue.

* * *

_December 16th, 1773_

So it finally came to this; this glorious moment for rebels to thieve the reigns of British taxing. In actuality, it was only tea. Just collections of loose herbs, spiced aromas. Quite a pleasantry for the midnight hour if brewed just right. However, it was the symbolism that riled these rebels to toss the damned crates overboard into the merciless black sea. So fascinating how an act of protest can massively spread the surge of adrenaline amongst multiple bodies all at once. The adrenaline surge, so delicious in its ferocious dance throughout the bloodstream, had been especially thrilling for the Native assassin, protecting the Sons of Liberty from muskets and knives. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed stopping the red coats in their blood stained tracks before ruining this planned act. This was his territory, not their own. And, like the grey back wolf, he enjoyed _every fucking minute_ of annihilating his trespassers.

Tonight had been the night that William Johnson would watch helplessly as his herbal gold was tossed away like soiled rags. This fact alone brought a wicked smirk to Connor's chapped lips. It was all so delicious that he could not desist from tasting it on every level possible.

After being handed the honor of the last crate of tea by his new ally, the hot-headed Frenchman named Stephane Chapeau, Connor held the said crate above his head with a dramatic thrust of his arms into the smoke-filled skies, bleeding black amongst the violet clouds. Johnson watched from afar, blocked off by crowds of rioting colonists. Ironically enough, Charles Lee stood beside him, watching the now grown Native boy he once choked in the forest take action. Sadly enough, the older, balding man was oblivious to this assassin's identity. To him, it was just a mere savage playing along in these colonial rebels' game. He clearly did not see that this young man held a personal vendetta against him for the past nine years, for burning his village...and his own mother.

To Lee, this young man was just some nameless insect when Connor viewed him as the iron thorn in his heart.

With a smug look upon his distinguished face, Connor dropped the crate into the sea with an expression of mock regret. _Oops._ This should slow down Johnson's scheming for control. Perhaps even stop it. Even if it was just the dumping of English tea, it was _something_.

Secretly, in the clandestine depths of his being, Connor was relieved that he did not have to assassinate Johnson then and there. He deemed it not necessary, for the dumping of the tea felt satisfying enough. The Native assassin asserted his power over both the Britshman and the greasy waste of skin that was Lee. That alone almost rivaled the satisfaction of slitting throats for the purpose of justice. Almost.

However, the next three days would not be too kind to dear Connor.

* * *

_Three Days Later_

His notoriety had blasted through the skyline ever since the night of December 16th, which had been dubbed by newspapers as, "The Boston Tea Party." _'A party? Where do these people come up with these radical names? They are insane! This was no party. This was an act of retaliation.'_ One can assume that Connor still did not warm up to the printing press and the propaganda that spewed from that awful machine.

His deep cut frown and long white robes were memorized, detail by minute detail, by the red coat soldiers. Each turn of a corner led to a high speed chase across the city of Boston, muskets clacking and British slang bursting through the dingy air. With each throat slit with a quick slice of his razor sharp tomahawk, several more throats would appear. They were like _weeds_! When one was plucked, several more arose. Day three since the dumping of the tea, and Connor had managed to find himself in even more trouble after the victory.

On an early afternoon with a crisp chill in the air, the Native assassin could be found dashing down the middle of the marketplace. Where people once stared with befuddlement at the strange man in white, they were now accustomed to red coats chasing him down the cobblestone streets with muskets piercing the air. Some people had witnessed Connor's craftsmanship at carving a dozen or so of the British soldiers. Truthfully, the people of Boston did not object. Still, the occasional bloodbath was a bit much. Just a bit.

Connor dove into the nearest haystack after assassinating a pair of red coats with swift piercings of his hidden blade, penetrating the still beating hearts. A new group of red coats were close by, eager to tackle down the Native deviant. The leader of the group cackled as he witnessed Connor dive into a haystack.

"Too slow! Still see you!" the man in red shouted, licking his upper lip from the excitement of the chase.

Grinding his teeth, Connor leapt out of the haystack and onto the ground, his feet thrashing against the street as his upper body leaned forward to increase speed. His muscular arms pumped at his sides. Nearly knocking over a young couple about to share an intimate kiss, he turned a corner where several redcoats quickly followed in suit. Finding himself in a shaded, backyard farm with animals and a vegetable garden, Connor prepared for another showdown, his legs widening as he squatted in position. A fragile slave yelped with fright from his stance in the vegetable garden, escaping the scene as fast as his scrawny legs could take him.

Before a bloody mess could commence in the middle of a chicken coop, a high pitched scream shattered the air, forcing all other frequencies of sound to cower.

The redcoats looked around for the source, temporarily forgetting the task at hand. Connor merely shifted his eyes, locating the sound to come from the east.

The scream sounded off once again, this time accompanied by several more voices.

"Help! H-help, _please_! They've gone _mad_!"

A rather large riot had begun just outside the modest farm. The colonists were known to withhold aggression that could spark from even the slightest bit of oppression, taking action with their balled up fists and kicking leather shoes. The leader of the group turned around to face some of his men, commanding just a few of them to ease the situation. He ordered for them to be discrete about ceasing the riot. Just as the man turned back around from instructing his men, he came to find his remaining men in a pool of blood, their chests and throats gaping with blood. Connor smirked at the man's paling face, the hidden blade from the sleeve of his glove glinting in the sunlight with crimson pride. Sputtering incoherent words, the man stumbled as he ran away from the scene.

Before Connor could depart, a distinct, high-pitched whistle sounded off, capturing his attention. Tracking the source easily, he saw the back of a woman in a narrow alleyway, a large black hat atop her head. She stood with her side against the brick wall of a building, her hip jutted to one side. With her hand raised, she motioned with her index finger for him to follow her deeper into the crooks and crannies of the alleyway. Sneaky and whimsical, like the march hare that she was. Connor hesitated for a moment before he saw that the woman turned her head to look over her shoulder, her close mouthed smile and blue eyes revealing her identity.

_'MaryLynn.'_

Quickly observing the area for safety, Connor then made his way over to the woman who slowly began walking away. He quickened his pace to speak to her, his brows furrowed deeply.

"What are you doing here?" he said in a hushed voice, walking beside her.

She lead him to a quiet part of the alley, the busy streets of Boston just up ahead at the end of the narrow walkway.

"There is a riot just outside this alle-" he continued to speak, only to be interrupted by MaryLynn's light giggle.

"That was me, silly. _I_ started that riot. That scream was from my mouth to feign distress to distract the redcoats. I've lived here all my life, so perhaps knowing my way around these streets can be of use to you."

Without so much as a word or a glance, Connor turned away to leave.

"Unbelievable," she commented aloud at his brash action, throwing her hands in the air. "Not even a simple 'thank you' for helping you?"

"I did not _need_ or _ask_ for your help," he merely stated, his heavy footsteps refusing to stop.

The dismissal...it was what Surry had spoken of when mentioning Sam Adam's dealing with the Native assassin. He had not thanked the statesman for even one thing to help aid his mission. And yet, the older man had not declared a curt rejection of Connor. He still tolerated his dismissiveness and lack of gratitude, even considering the young man as one of his own men in the Sons of Liberty. What was so appalling about camaraderie in this fight for freedom?

And he had just dismissed MaryLynn so easily, as if they had never met before, as if she never helped him before.

She huffed, anger rising as her fists clenched at her sides. This was certainly not acceptable.

"You are selfish, you know that?" she spoke up, secretly surprised by her daring streak.

This worked wonders in stopping the Native assassin in his tracks. He quickly turned around to face her, a deep scowl tugging his lips. A part of her was relieved that the hood concealed his eyes. His scowl was intimidating, but his eyes were downright frightening. Nonetheless, she forced her nervous energy away. There was no way this man was going to make her squirm before him.

"I am fighting to grant these people freedom, and yet you claim I am _selfish_?" he retaliated, his large hand motioning between them.

"I am not speaking of this struggle for freedom! I am speaking of your arrogance over people who may share the same desire as you, yet you dismiss their aid completely."

Connor did not falter. His broad shoulders remained squared, his stance towering. She could see the bone of his jaw tense against his copper skin. How the hell would this woman know of his struggles? His people's struggles? She spoke such blasphemy. There was no time for pleasantries and get-to-know-you's! However, Connor's lack of movement suggested that he was listening to her.

The more his stare became intense, the more MaryLynn's anger sparked at how he looked down upon her like a helpless kitten who could not catch the mouse. Who was he to declare her useless? This woman was not backing down. Not now.

Two people, two worlds, stood up against one another, claiming their purpose as "_the"_ purpose. It was a showdown of the prides: the pride of a man and the pride of a woman.

"Surry tells me that Sam doesn't mind you running off without so much as a 'thank you' or an extension of friendship when working alongside you. He means you no harm, and considers you as an equal! Do as you wish with him, but don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance! Do you honestly think you're the only one hurting inside? Do you think you're the only one who is affected by this God awful time? Sam cares about you, and _so..do..I_."

With grand steps forward, the blonde woman eliminated the distance between herself and Connor, looking up into his shadowed eyes. Her own eyes were on the verge of crowning with tears. MaryLynn fought tooth and nail not to cry in front of him. She wasn't a child. She wasn't_ useless_.

"Come down from your pedestal, you...you _brute_!" she shouted, her nails cutting into her palms as her fists tightened further.

She stormed off, shoving the brim of her large black hat down over her eyes. Connor had no words to retaliate with, utter frustration bubbling in his stomach and up into his throat. All could he manage through his emotion was an aggressive inquiry.

"Where are you going?!"

"None of your concern!" the blonde woman spat, picking up her skirt and petticoat to grant her legs more leeway as she bustled away into the Boston streets.

She bit into her lip to refrain from crying in frustration. 'Do not cry in public-do not cry in public-do not cry in public,' was the mantra looping within her mind. Why did she bother to save him, only to see that he was not what she thought he was? Tempted to accept regret and hatred into her heart, she refused. She had saved him, both today and three years ago, and would do it again if given the chance. There was no room in her heart for hatred to feast away at her humanity.

And yet, it hurt very much to be rejected by a potential friend.

He remained silent as he watched MaryLynn disappear. He bowed his head, a frown cutting into his face as the woman's words replayed in his mind. _"Come down from your pedestal, you...you _brute_!_" He growled deep in his throat, grinding his teeth in vexation. _'That's not what I meant to say to you. You don't understand where I'm coming from. I didn't mean...Ugh!'_

"There he is!" called the once stammering redcoat soldier from afar. "Get him before he escapes once more!"

* * *

Several days went by since the confrontation in the alleyway.

At the edge of a cliff side, tucked in the heart of the vast frontier sat the Native assassin, his legs crossed while his shoulders hunched forward. He stared at the murky lakes below, his absence of awareness giving way to his troubled recollections.

_"Why?!" a pale face painted with the man's own blood pleaded for an answer. "I was only doing as I was told!"_

_The expression of remorse across his recruit's once angry face had struck Connor. He had given Stephane the order to kill the taxman, only to find himself empty when the killing was not done by his own hands, but performed before his eyes._

_"End his suffering cleanly," was all Connor could say to Stephane, his head bowed low._

_He had to look away. He could not witness the Frenchman strike his butcher knife deeper into the man's weeping shoulder wound. The gurgle of blood from the man's throat made Connor nauseous to no end. It was the first pang of remorse to shatter his angry heart._

Why did this memory insist on pestering him? Connor had sought to ease the fury of Stephane Chapeau over suspected thievery in his home, only to later find himself telling the recruit to assassinate a taxman that he thought was a direct source to William Johnson's power. The assassination did not leave Connor with satisfaction as he had expected. It left him feeling empty...feeling dirtied by watching this hysterical man die. To kill a man himself had numbed him to the very core. He was trained to be a Reaper in white, an Assassin of the Brotherhood.

To watch a man being killed by another was a different story. He simply could not understand it. He was trained for three long years to become a ruthless killer! Why was this happening now? What had fueled his purpose had also began to betray his sanity.

This event had occurred a few days ago, yet it was still clear in his mind. The taxman working for Johnson was dead. Stephane executed the deed under Connor's order. It was done. And yet, the sight of a man dying, bleeding profusely as he pleaded for a reason why this misfortune had befallen him, still haunted the young man. The taxman was just another blind man under Johnson's thumb. And Connor, for the first time, felt remorse during this mission. What if the man could be persuaded to leave his position? What if he was only doing what he was told, an ignorant man with no direction?

Connor thought his mind would explode if his thoughts delved any deeper into the possibilities that will never be justified.

He did not blame Stephane at all, not even for a split second. The Frenchman was overfilled with anger, an anger that the young man knew all too well. And there he was, trying to calm down another man who shared that same incessant fury. It was not his hand that was stained with the taxman's blood, but the Frenchman's hand. However, it might as well have been Connor's hand with the butcher knife in possession since the order to assassinate came from his lips alone.

Recruiting Stephane had somewhat alleviated him, however. The mission was not as stressful when there was another man present to exchange and execute plans with. Having visited Stephane earlier today in his tavern, Connor conversed with him over an ale or two. The will to live had flickered in Stephane's dark little eyes, despite having lost his wife and child to heartless British soldiers raiding his home years ago. Connor opened his eyes, metaphorically, to the fact that he was not the only one with a tragic past. Demons lurk in just about any human being.

_"Come down from your pedestal, you...you_ brute!_"_  
_"..don't you dare try my patience with your arrogance."_

MaryLynn's words came to taunt once again.

"_I am not arrogant. I am angry,_" he whispered into the air in Mohawk as if he were answering back to the blonde woman.

The rest of his inner speech continued within the security of his mind's walls.

_'This is my fight, and I will not permit the chance for an ally, a friend, to die because of me. Maybe she had spoken a truth in her anger. Am I blind to others who seek justice just as I do? They shouldn't die because they are affiliated with me, but do I thieve them of seeking their own personal justice?'_

He growled aloud, pulling his hair in frustration. He heaved air in and out, trying to ease himself down.

_'I owe MaryLynn an apology,'_ he thought. _'I just hope she'll accept my apology. She may share a painful past as well. She did nothing but aid me, and asked for nothing in return. Mother had taught me better than this.'_

Mother. _Ista._ The thought of his deceased mother infiltrated his mind.

_Her burning flesh._

_Her rotting bones._

_Her final words._

He shook his head as if to rid himself of the merciless trauma. Eyes stinging with potential tears, Connor bit into his lower lip, silently vowing to make his dear mother proud in the afterlife.

He sighed aloud, stifling his emotions the way he had usually done. He could not bear to fester with painful memories in fear of refusing to continue his mission, to live. Connor decided on visiting MaryLynn tonight in Boston, recalling the building she had pointed out on the night they had reunited. Once his head had cooled from the runaway thoughts, he felt a slight puff of hot air at his fingers. Looking down, Connor came to be acquainted with a small hare. The light brown puff with long ears had sniffed his fingers and leather glove, its nose crinkled with curiosity.

"_Go home_," Connor said to the hare. "_I have no desire to hunt you right now._"

The hare, oddly enough, acceded as it ran off into the tall grass, long ears still visible as it dashed away.

_"I wish I could go home as well."_

* * *

Once night had fallen upon the dirty streets of Boston, the Native assassin had arrived at the Maverick. Hoping he had the correct residence picked out, Connor pulled open the large maroon door. The scent of jasmine perfume had overwhelmed his nostrils. The streets were an unpleasant, pungent smell altogether, but to mingle with the heavy floral scent was enough to make him nauseous.

Swallowing the nausea down, he made his way down a narrow hallway paneled with aged wood. Upon the walls hung frames of pressed blood roses and violet stalks. Despite being drained of water, the colors of the pressed flowers still possessed a vibrant hue. However, they were far from living. The roses and violets were like that of decorated corpses in a mortuary: put on display for the living to marvel at the imitation of life in death.

Dark eyes were drawn away from the framed flowers once Connor passed through a threshold into a large foyer. A few feet away stood a large, curvaceous woman with fire red curls pinned atop her head. Her back faced him as she looked up the staircase in front of her. She appeared to be vigilant, listening in on whatever she was listening for. Connor cleared his throat to gain her attention.

Turning around, the woman did not bat an eyelash at the towering man. Quite frankly, she looked him up and down before addressing him, a pencil thin eyebrow cocked at a high angle.

"Yea?" she said. "Can I help you?"

"I am here for MaryLynn. Does she live here?"

"She does. Do you 'ave an appointment with her, sir?"

"No. She had granted me permission to visit her."

"Ha! I've heard tha' one before. I may be gettin' up in years, but I'm not stupid."

"I am only here to visit her per her request. Bring her here to prove my words."

"Are you bossin' me around, boy? Ay, I don' think so. I've seen those Wanted posters, no mistake there. And the bulk of weapons you 'ave concealed there don' help you either. I appreciate you helpin' those rebels with those taxes, boy, but I'm in no way allowin' a dangerous man near my girls."

"I was given permission by MaryLynn to visit her," Connor repeated himself, his patience leaving him. "Let me through."

"Try an' pass me, an' I'll filet you like haggis and serve you to hell hounds! Don' think I won' do it!"

And thus, Connor left with a scowl. The dead flowers bid him goodnight from their glass homes as his heavy footsteps passed by them. '_What is it about that old woman and disliking me? I have done nothing wrong!_' He was given permission, and he did not threaten the sassy woman.

Shutting the door behind him with a heavy "_thud_," Connor looked up at the building before him. Two windows in front. He dashed to the left side of the building. Three windows on this side. Possibly two other windows in the back and three more on the right side. Connor discerned that MaryLynn was located in one of those rooms on the second floor. He knew that she was not at the Green Dragon tavern. He had already looked before approaching the Maverick.

The scowl quickly curved into a smirk as he began to scale the wall of the building. '_I win, old woman_.'

The first few windows revealed either a quiet room or a woman's shriek, strange animal-like noises coming to a silence. Despite being highly inexperienced, Connor was not a fool as to what these ecstatic noises indicated. He knew that there were men and women having sex in these rooms. No wonder that older woman was so protective. These women were part of her business. Connor was unsure of how to feel about a business such as this. However, he did not judge the profession, knowing that hard times called for desperate measures. Still, he wondered why a woman would sell herself. He deemed it to be none of his business, and did not know these women personally to even begin to discern what kind of people they were. Besides, he had never engaged in sexual intercourse.

The man was a virgin, pure and simple.

Scaling his way to the last three windows on the right side of the Maverick, he knocked on yet another window. A woman with black tousled hair, who was dressed in only her white linen pantaloons and bodice, had come to meet him at the window.

"Oh _my_!" she shouted. "You do know there's a door below, right?"

"Do you know where MaryLynn is?" Connor questioned, his inquiries never failing to sound like firm demands.

"Oh. _Her_," mumbled the dark haired woman, her green eyes rolling. "She is the second window from the right of this one."

Seizing the opportunity to gain a new client, the woman began to twirl a lock of dark hair around her fingers as she admired Connor's bulky physique beneath his long white coat.

"You're that man that's been stopping the British taxmen around here. Would you like to come in and relax with me, darlin'?"

"No," he curtly dismissed the woman in a deadpan voice, working his way to the desired window.

"Damn that woman!" seethed the dark haired woman as she slammed the window panes shut. "Now she's got them climbing the damn building for her!"

Finally. She was to be in this room. Suddenly, he experienced slight nervousness. No matter. It was his duty to apologize to the blonde woman, and that was what he was going to do. He knocked on the window glass three times. The first two knocks were audible and confident, while the last knock was hesitant.

There was a faint glow of candlelight from inside the room. He saw MaryLynn look up from an open, leather bound book resting on her lap. Her eyes widened at the sight of the unexpected visitor at her window. Putting aside her book, she slowly rose from her bed, cautious in her footsteps. Opening the window panes towards her, MaryLynn looked at Connor with raised eyebrows.

"_Connor_? How did you..?"

She did not finish her question. It was obvious that he had scaled up the building. She shook her head of the previous inquiry, her blonde curls bouncing about.

"Why are you here?" she decided to ask him an inquiry more suited to this impromptu situation.

He does not answer her immediately. His head turned away. Connor was accustomed to pulling his weight up cliffs and buildings alike, so hanging from the window sill was not an issue. It was beginning to formulate his apology that hindered the young man.

"You can come in, but you better have an explanation ready," MaryLynn stated in a soft voice, stepping back to grant him space.

It was a risk that she took to grant him entry into her bedroom. She knew of his slaughtering of the redcoats and taxmen by word of mouth. It was not exactly done in a discrete manner. He was an expert with weapons, and these said weapons adorned his waist. Despite this, she knew that he would not harm her. He had no reason to.

Connor climbed into the bedroom, his eyes still avoiding the blue pair that sought him out. Standing up, he forced himself to look at the blonde woman. There she stood, crossing her arms before her bosom and an eyebrow arched high. No, she did not forget their heated argument from several days ago. She was dressed in a white linen nightgown, the collar hanging over her bare right shoulder. Draped down her torso was an onyx beaded rosary, a silver crucifix glittering in the moonlight. The rosary had captured his eye, curious about the foreign jewelry winking up at him. Retracting his gaze from the rosary, the Native assassin opened his mouth, only to shut it with hesitance. This was much more difficult than just interrogating a man! Here, he was baffled.

"I am rather tired from my last client, and don't intend on standing up all night," MaryLynn stated firmly, jutting out her hip with a hand placed upon it. "What is it?"

His mouth opened.

His mouth shut.

He looked down at his hands.

He picked at his leather gloves.

He tried to open his mouth again, beginning to form a word...only to shut his mouth once more.

The blonde woman was losing her patience. What in God's name did he want? She sighed aloud, throwing her hands up in the air.

"If you insist on standing there, then I'm going to bed," she declared heatedly, hastily making her way to her rumpled bed. "Goodnig-"

"Sorry."

He finally spoke.

"Wh-what?" MaryLynn stuttered, ceasing her footsteps to look at Connor intently.

Connor sighed aloud, his shoulders hunching forward as he looked the blonde woman in the eye.

"I am sorry...for my behavior from days ago."

"Oh, Connor. You came all the way up here just to apologize to me?"

He nodded, retaining a meaningful gaze on her candlelit face. MaryLynn was touched. Beneath all that pride of his, the Native assassin meant well. This was an honorable act; a rather _odd_ act, considering he came through a damn window instead of a door; but an honorable one nonetheless.

Exhaling though her nostrils, she smiled up at Connor with raised eyebrows.

"Now, was that so hard to do?" she asked with a playful tone to her breathy voice.

His nervous gaze left her face for his hands, his eyes further hidden beneath the pointed lip of his hood.

"Yes," he grumbled, biting the inside of his lip.

* * *

**_Author's Note:_** Yes...they ended up having a little _tiff_. No worries, it's out of their systems for now, so they will get along from here.

Thank you to those who have read/reviewed/favorited/followed this story thus far! I greatly appreciate your time to do so. As you can see, there will be skipping of moments in the actual game because I do not want to drag the story by writing out every sequence we all know and love from Assassin's Creed 3. My ADD can't take that, ha ha.

Remember the number 1001 for the next chapter. ;)

Have a lovely week, everyone. Best wishes.

~take care


	5. Never Asked for a Savior

**Chapter 4: Never Asked for a Savior**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick brothel._

_Italics:_ Native tongue, retelling of tales, and memories.

* * *

"Madame did not let you through, did she," MaryLynn suspected aloud, smiling at the idea of the burly Scottish woman tossing Connor over her shoulder like a rag doll.

"No, she did not. I had followed your instructions, and she did not believe me. She said that I looked too dangerous to be near you and these women."

He bit the inside of his lip, looking away. The recollection of the older woman telling him that he was "too dangerous" rather insulted him. Looking at his attire and the weaponry adorning his waist, Madame had written him off as a threat. Soldiers frequent this place, do they not? Had they not muskets and knives strapped to their bodies?

Connor had meant no harm, and suggested nothing of the sort with his proper speech. The blonde woman noticed the irritated expression knitting his black eyebrows and tensing his jaw.

"She did not mean to insult you. Please understand, Madame has to be cautious concerning which clients are harmless and which could pose a threat. She didn't know that you weren't a client. Not all men mean well."

MaryLynn fiddled with the beads of her rosary as her eyelids became heavy. She muffled her thoughts, trying not to recall certain situations. It had been quite some time since she was assaulted and almost raped, but the memories never wiped clean from her mind.

"I'm sorry if you felt uncomfortable," she continued, looking to Connor intently.

Somehow, the softening of Connor's facial features had put her at ease from the little monsters dancing in her head. He could appear so stern and serious to people. And yet, when his jaw was not tense and his eyebrows were not tightly knit, the Native assassin was a sight to see. A pure, unadulterated air danced around his otherwise intimidating appearance. 'Such a paradox. What else does he hide?' MaryLynn pondered, releasing her hold on the rosary beads.

"It is fine," Connor had assured her, his deep voice snapping the blonde woman out of her mental stupor. "I think I understand why she must...Wait, you refer to her as 'Madame'?"

"Yes," she replied with a soft laugh, knowing where Connor was going with this all-too-common inquiry.

Connor hesitated with his following question, his plump lips remaining slightly parted. He was still rusty with some colonial customs and terms, and he despised feeling embarrassed over his ignorance. Scratching his cheek, he forced the words out of his mouth.

"Forgive my ignorance, but is that not a formal addressing of an older woman? What is her real name?"

"No one knows. She never reveals her real name to the girls, including myself, so we simply address her as 'Madame.' I understand, it sounds rather odd."

"Not at all. I think I understand why she does not reveal her name...and why she is overly protective of you and the other women that work here."

There. There it was. Time to face possible lectures and words of pity. MaryLynn never thought that the Native assassin would actually accept the offer of visiting her! And yet, here he was; just as he said he would. It was not his opinion of her that would bother her. It was a possible lecture and a look of judgment that she was much too tired of dealing with, especially after dealing with a needy client a half hour ago.

"So, you know of my other profession," the blonde woman presumed, looking him dead in the eye.

Connor merely nodded, preferring this gesture over speaking. The noises of ecstasy from the other windows; the eagerness of the dark haired woman for him to come into her bedroom; the rather harsh assessment from Madame; and the clandestine nature of the household in general alluded to what went on in this two-story building.

MaryLynn sighed softly, fingering a bead or two of her rosary. Her next utterance was sputtered out in one breath.

"Please, do not judge me, I know there are prejudices about this profession, but I am an honest woman and I must survive and I do not need your pity or judgments or-"

He interrupted her one-breath reasoning with a raise of his palm, signaling her to desist from her frantic explanation. She obeyed, her lips sealing shut into a tight line.

"I do not judge you," Connor said slowly, intently.

The blonde woman nodded, now holding both the beads and the glittering silver crucifix in one hand for comfort. Up climbed the anxiety in her pounding little heart. Her eyes flicker to the tomahawk strapped to his side, swallowing hard.

"I know what you do…with those redcoats, I mean. I have not seen you do it, but people have been talking for quite some time..."

The air suddenly became thick as it collected within their lungs, coiling around their throats. Should he tell her about the Brotherhood of Assassins? The Templars? No. No, he could not. It was not appropriate to share this information with her. Yes, she could be a possible ally, and a friend, but MaryLynn was safer if left in the dark about such things.

Connor had done what he had to on his mission, and was not about to stop anytime soon. It was his business to slash down Templar influences, to protect his people and their land from grasping, greedy hands. This woman's reaction would not change his chosen path, a solitary sort of path. However, he observed the blonde woman's anxious behavior. MaryLynn spoke of the facts regarding his "profession," if one could call it that, but she appeared to be uncomfortable actually speaking of them.

Her voice was barely audible, like a gentle summer wind, and her right hand fiddled with the rosary draped down her torso as it were her final lifeline in this world._'Why does she touch that necklace so much?'_ Connor mused over the significance of the rosary. _'I wonder if it is a blessed object.'_

Unfortunately for Connor, he had mistaken her anxiety for fear of him when, in actuality, she was nervous in general.

He wondered if she feared being killed. He would never hurt a woman. _Ever_. He sighed aloud, feeling guilt over having made her feel uneasy. Before the Native assassin could allow the nipping subconscious mind to question him if MaryLynn's opinion would affect him, she spoke up.

"I do not judge you either, nor am I afraid of you."

Connor released a strained breath through his nostrils, watching the blonde woman intently. Although they lead different roles in life, they were both considered unconventional. Neither person would consider chatter over sex and death to be casual chatter! Perhaps Connor was overthinking her body language. It was different from the body language that he was accustomed to studying whilst in battle and eavesdropping.

"I want to propose something," MaryLynn announced calmly, her fingers leaving the glossy texture of the rosary beads for good.

The Native assassin nodded as he crossed his arms, his unwavering gaze alerting her that he was listening. MaryLynn was not ashamed of how she earned a living, but she still worried over losing a friend due to negative judgments. Connor did not seem to care. He was still here, was he not? She did not bother fretting over his interest in her services. Being a woman with experience in dealing with men of all types, MaryLynn could discern right away that Connor was untouched, and far too uncomfortable to reach out and touch her. Somehow, the blonde woman found this quality of his attractive. 'An untouched, beautiful man. Quite lovely. I would never take that away from him. It is too precious.'

"Let us not speak of our...line of work," she continued. "I presume neither one of us wants to, and neither one of us should have to. We keep our secrets, yes?"

"I-I suppose so," he sputtered, his crossed arms beginning to come undone.

Slowly removing his white hood, Connor revealed his entire face before speaking to her in a promising tone. Even though he had heard this woman claim that she was unafraid of him, Connor wanted to make his good intentions clear to her. His acute hearing sensed the blonde woman's breath ceasing. Was she nervous? Did she judge his appearance?

No. Not in the least bit. The sweetly oblivious man just did not recognize when a woman found him attractive. It was the freckles embedded into his copper skin and the deep set dark eyes that seemed to captivate MaryLynn.

"Please know this," Connor began, his tone softening now that his entire face, his identity, was revealed to her. "I will not harm you, nor will I ever."

"I know that."

"Do you truly?"

His eyes were sincere in their dark brown color, his brows framing them heavily. Copper skin illuminated with gold sheen from the candlelight. Admiring his softened features, she noticed a narrow braid brushing along the left side of his face, green and red beads adorning the braid. She had never seen such a fashion on a man before, and found herself fancying the thin braid. Secretly, MaryLynn wanted to finger the smooth braid, wondering how soft his hair was.

She chuckled softly to herself, knowing that she was only looking at the braid to distract herself from Connor's inquiry. 'My, my, I must stop acting like a young girl! He is so _oblivious_, it tickles me to no end!'

"I do. It's just that the thought of blood makes me uncomfortable. _Very _uncomfortable."

"I have been trained to deal with blood. I do not blame you for not wanting to see such things."

"Thank you for your words. I hope your night serves you well."

MaryLynn made her way to her unmade bed, climbing beneath the linen sheets that would cool her aching back and pelvis from her sessions earlier tonight. She picked up the book that she had tossed aside on Connor's unexpected visit. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, Connor made his way to the open window, about to depart. He turned his head to look at the woman once more before the book's title had thieved him of his intention on leaving.

"**A Thousand and One Nights**," he mumbled to himself, his brain flickering wildly with recognition over the title etched in gold lettering.

He recalled the words MaryLynn had said to him on the night of their reunion.

_"You look like you have a thousand and one tales to tell me."_

"So _that_ is what you meant!" Connor's voice raised in volume, his eyes widened.

"Pardon me?" she muttered with an arched eyebrow.

"You had told me on the night we spoke at the tavern that I appeared to have 'a thousand and one tales' to tell you. I did not understand this at the time, and yet here is the answer before me: the book you are reading."

She flushed at the cheeks, looking away as she placed a hand on the book's leather visage.

"I said that to you?" she questioned, peeking up at him through lowered black eyelashes.

"Yes, you did," he stepped forward, so pleased over simple things.

"_Oh my_, I cannot remember much these days! Um, yes, this book is the culprit of that silly phrase I told you. It's called, '**A Thousand and One Nights: The Arabian Nights Entertainments**.' It's one of my favorites. Sadly, I only possess a couple of volumes of the collection."

The blonde woman seemed bashful all of a sudden as she buried her face in the book. Her wide blue eyes began to peek over the edge of the book to look up at Connor, who stood there with a curious expression on his face.

"What is this book about?" he questioned with the eagerness to know more.

During his three years of training with Achilles, he was required to read dozens of books on combat techniques, the history between the Assassins and the Templars, and the potpourri of philosophy shared across the world. Sometimes, if Connor had done well with his tasks, the former master assassin would permit the young man to take pleasure in fictional books. Truth be told, Connor loved tucking himself away in the treetops, holding captive a book or two to read. He failed to hide the small, subtle smile on his lips.

"Well, it is hard to say," began MaryLynn, looking up to the ceiling in thought. "There is a main plot written with miniature plots woven in. The main story consists of an angry sultan, King Shahryar, who executes each new wife after one night alone with her. He does this before she is able to betray him with another man. However, he is a paranoid man, imagining such scenarios. His latest wife, Scheherazade, is a clever young woman who is the daughter of his royal advisor, the Vizier. She recounts tales each night they are together to postpone her execution. These tales are fantastical with all sorts of characters and lessons learned, even magical beings who grant wishes! O-oh, I'm sorry. I'm rambling on and probably bor-"

"No," Connor interjected, his eyebrows raised. "I am curious to know more about these tales, and why this king feels the need to kill his spouses. What reason does he have to dishonor these women?"

She cocked an eyebrow as she smirked, amused by the emotions peaking through his usually stolid face.

"I could read it to you, if you are that curious," she said with mischief twinkling in her eyes, a playful idea dancing around in her mind like a small child.

Connor became bashful, picking at his gloves as he peered down at the book in her lap.

"I would not want you to return to the beginning of the book if you have already progressed."

"It's no trouble! I don't have many friends to speak about these tales with. The gentleman that gave this book to me a couple of years ago...Well, I promised not to reveal his name. Reputation and all. Anyway, his visits with me did not last long, but he gave me these books. I spent some time with him after my services. He was just so knowledgeable that I wanted to listen to him speak for days and days on end. Luckily, this man was amused by my incessant curiosity, so he humored me with personal stories and books. He was a bespectacled man of many talents. He was rather gentle with me, too." **

While MaryLynn meant that the older gentleman was mindful in touching a woman, the Native assassin thought that "gentle" referred to the man's manners. _'It's nice to know that she had known at least one nice man in her profession.'_

"I expressed an interest in reading about foreign cultures and lands far away from here that he would tell me about. So, he gave me this English translation of this book of Arabian folktales."

"What happened to this man?"

"He had business to attend to in Philadelphia," MaryLynn said in a quiet voice, forcing a smile to chase away the sadness that lingered in her eyes.

Connor listened intently, leaning his back against the wood paneled wall. He felt his heart warm slightly over learning about her love of different cultures and far away lands. If he ever spoke of his own customs and village folktales, would the blonde woman be as excited as she was over these Arabian tales? _'I hope so. It would be nice to feel accepted.'_

MaryLynn could not stifle a warm smile gracing her lips. He did not speak of disapproval over a woman reading and educating herself. This man was worth having as a friend in her life, and she intended on keeping him.

"Thank you, Connor."

"For what?"

"Your words were all I ever wanted to hear. This is a discrete business, and people look down on women in my line of work. Women are looked down upon when wanting to educate themselves, too. I speak my mind, and although you may not agree with me, you do not berate me. I may be breaking many social rules, but I am surviving. I'm not someone's wife. I'm not someone's mother. I'm not even someone's child."

The last line had pierced Connor's heart. He was no one's child either. Connor lowered his head, remaining quiet.

"However," continued the blonde woman, "this gives me freedom in my own right. I answer to no one. I thank you for listening without judgment."

He nodded his head in understanding as he quietly said, "I am showing the respect I know I would want."

"Would you still like me to read you the beginning of this book?"

"Yes," Connor immediately answered, his upper body leaning forward from the wall like a wooden puppet brought to life with a tug of his strings.

She adjusted her bottom over to the side of her bed to grant him space to sit down. He didn't feel comfortable sitting next to a woman on her bed, so he located a nearby chair to sit on. Before easing himself down, he checked the sturdiness of the chair with the tip of his moccasin. Even years after breaking Achilles' old chairs in that ancient home of his, Connor was still concerned over breaking furniture in someone's residence. MaryLynn found his behavior peculiar, her head cocked to the side. Connor sat down, only to cross his muscular arms before his chest. He was several feet away from the bed where MaryLynn sat.

"Why do you sit all the way over there?" she questioned with a soft giggle lacing the inquiry. "I am not going to touch you or anything."

"I am comfortable here," he stubbornly affirmed, jutting out his lips in a pout.

The blonde woman shook her head as her eyebrows raised up. 'Such an odd man.' She opened the maroon, leather bound book, turning the pages back to the very beginning.

_"The king was devastated to hear that the wife of his brother was unfaithful. How could this be? Why would a queen do such a thing as betray her king? He sympathized with his brother greatly. It seemed fate had a cruel sense of humor, for the king had discovered his own queen bedding another man not too long far hearing of his brother's marital woes. Fueled with betrayal and rage, the king has his queen executed the next day, so that she would never betray him ever again. After the gruesome event, the king embarked on a sequence of marrying virgin and virgin, shortly executing these women before they had the chance to betray him._

_"Stressed over his king's daily executions, the vizier, his royal advisor, had done everything in his power to arrange for a decent woman to be the king's loyal, pure wife. He had done everything, except offer his own daughter. The young woman stood up to offer herself. The vizier, her father, had pleaded and begged for his only daughter to desist from her risky decision. She eased his tensions, assuring him that she had tricks in store for the ruthless king."_

Connor's crossed arms had come undone.

_"And so, on their first night together, the king withheld a stoic expression, expecting to waste his time with yet another virgin. The young woman would smirk at his proud demeanor. She offers him a tale to spend the time. He acceded, his frown easing just a tad."_

His shoulders began to relax, hunching forward in his seat.

_"To his surprise, the king had followed her every word, his eyes growing wider and wider with intrigue. As the hours passed, the beast within the king had been lulled into a childish glee, eager to mow what was to become of the heroes and villains alike. The next morning, to her relief, she was not executed. In return, she promised another tale for each night she spent with the king."_

His elbows had rested upon his knees as his chin was placed in his palms. His dark eyes widened by the minute.

Every gesture and change of voice that she exhibited with each new character throughout the reading had entertained him greatly. He wanted to hear more and more. She _became_ each character that she read about, almost taking on their personas with soft voices, low voices, varying facial expressions. MaryLynn looked to him occasionally, seeing his once stiff body lean over to listen intently. She smiled to herself, her eyes looking up from heavy hooded eyelids. The boy that had she met years ago still existed inside this grim man.

_"And from then, she told the king marvelous stories for a thousand and one nights."_

Blue eyes flickered to the man who once bore a stolid face, only to be reverted back to an enthusiastic child.

"Still interested in a tale or two, Connor?"

* * *

Between missions (both liberty missions and naval missions) and business at the homestead community, Connor would visit the blonde woman a couple of nights a week for more Arabian tales.

His body language had begun to change, little by little, as his enthusiasm for the blonde woman's recounting of the stories grew.

After two weeks, the chair had inched closer to where MaryLynn sat upon the bed. Another two weeks, and it had inched even closer. By week six, he was comfortable enough to sit atop the bed beside her, retaining a respectful distance from her body. Connor would sit up against the headboard, his legs hanging over the bed's edge as to not soil the bedsheets with his worn out moccasins. His long white coat, his assembly of weapons, and his moccasin leggings would hang over the old chair shortly after his arrival. The musky scent of the frontier was both potent and lovely. MaryLynn could almost picture herself running through the woods whenever she smelled that musky scent of his.

On this night, Marylynn was about to begin the tale, 'The Third Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor.' Connor was bewildered over the story-within-a-story format, so he ceased her telling of the next tale with his eager questioning.

"Why does the woman start a new tale each night? It is clear that she will not be executed. Why not tell just one tale and claim her rights?"

"Well, you see, the sultan was known to execute his wives sporadically. You remember this impulsiveness of his, don't you?"

Connor nodded.

"The woman is more than aware of this. So, to be extra cautious, she devises a new story within a story each night so that the tale lasts longer, therefore her life lasts longer. This can be considered trickery, but I happen to see it as quick wit and survival."

"I feel sorry for this woman. She should not have to be married to a man who does not respect her time. He is not an honorable man."

"I understand what you are saying. She deserves much more, and he is a coward. However, there are reasons why he is the way he is."

"No reason would ever justify his actions. I do not care that he was not the actual person to behead these wives. The blood still stains his hands."

"True, but listen first before you speak. He is afraid that he will be betrayed once again by a woman. His actions are overzealous and unforgivable, yes, I agree with you. They are all done in fear. The pain of betrayal would simply kill him. Tales such as these are exaggerated to teach a lesson. He kills women before they can kill his heart."

"Of course. My people have their own tales to instill morals. However, he frustrates me very much. I do not know why. He does not learn. He remains the same, yet these people in the tales are the ones who gain wisdom."

She laughed softly. If she didn't know any better, MaryLynn saw the similarities between Shahryar and Connor. Fear of betrayal. The immediate dismissal of those who pose a threat. He killed possible bonds without hesitation rather than killing the person as did the sultan. However, he did not kill this bond that he shared with her. He did not dismiss her, just as Shahryar did not dismiss Scheherazade. The blonde woman tucked away this observation in the back of her mind.

"My goodness, you despise the king very much! Answer me this question: why do you return to my bedroom for more tales if he bothers you?"

The Native assassin shrugged his shoulders. He selected his words carefully before speaking. It took him a few minutes to answer, MaryLynn patiently waiting with her hands splayed atop the yellowing pages.

"Because I hope to see him change," Connor admitted quietly as he looked down at his large hands.

"I hope so too," she agreed with a gentle sigh, not wanting to give away the ending.

She then started to recount 'The Third Voyage of Sinbad,' resisting the urge to pick Connor's brain for more of his thoughts and questions.

_"The call of the deep sea was made undeniable by Sinbad's restless need for adventure. Sailing out into the unknown, he and his crew found themselves in an unfortunate predicament when cast on an island. As ill fate would have it, a beast with eyes like coals of fire and teeth like a boar's husks captures the crew, eating them one by one. The captain was the first of the men to be devoured, being the fattest of them all. With no time to spare over fear, Sinbad had to strike down the beast before any more of his crew suffered a terrible death. He felt it was duty to rescue these unfortunate souls. And so, intending to blind the beast with two red-hot iron spits, Sinbad ran towards the hideous beast with a battle cry, not a single care for his possible demise."_

* * *

_Two Weeks Later_

_February 1774_

Her back collided against the wall as they engaged in a heated kiss. Her fingers slid through his loose dark hair as she leaned her head back, granting his traveling kisses more access to her neck. A shapely leg wrapped around his calf, her heel rubbing up and down the muscle. Her soprano moan enchanted his ears, evoking a flicker of wildfire in his groin.

_Ohh_. She could feel his manhood swell against her thigh. This man was not well-endowed, sadly. What a _bother. _

She whispered empty encouragement in between kisses, her lips nipping at his jaw now and then. Hopefully this won't take too long. Didn't he have children to go home to? A lonely wife?

'Here we go again,' thought the blonde woman as she crooned an affectionate pet name or two.

This was nothing new from the usual performances. This man was just another nameless client looking for the sultry vixen to make him scream for the night.

The rough kisses soon led to the ripping away of clothing, falling to the ground like pooling puddles in a rainstorm. She pulled him to the bed by his thick wrist, her plump bottom bouncing on the mattress as the man climbed atop her pale body. The next ten minutes were a blur.

Count five seconds.

Fake a moan.

Count another five seconds.

Fake another moan.

Whisper a perverted utterance.

Moan once more before beginning a consistent rhythm of loud breathing.

It was all a lie, her performance. The man would never know, though.

Growing tired and rather irritated by the man's incessant humping, the blonde woman presented the finale in what she deemed to resemble a "mind-shattering" orgasm cry. He ended up pulling out of her wet entrance to climax onto her stomach. Great. More mess to clean up. Once he was fully dressed, MaryLynn bid the man goodbye in a breathy, feminine voice. She closed the door rather hastily, sighing aloud. The payment was safe with Madame, and she would receive her dues tomorrow morning. Carefully removing the sponge from her vaginal canal, she disposed of the used contraceptive quickly, glad to be rid of the thing. It was rammed flat up against her cervix, and the feeling was damn painful!

MaryLynn did not want to perform sex anymore tonight. Sometimes, in the middle of a session, she would be too tired, too worn out to carry on. However, she had to. The show must go on. Luckily, her clients were egotistical enough to be satisfied by hearing a prostitute climax before him. This trickery served her well, but her body had had enough. Little did they know, she faked her orgasms, perfecting the body shivers and the desperate gasps for air. She mastered the whispered encouragements, the flying of golden hair over her face, the parted lips in the shape of an "O." It was all an act, and they'd never know. Truth be told, MaryLynn Mortenson had not had a true blue, genuine orgasm by a man in years. By this point, she had entertained the possibility that she would never experience an orgasm by a man ever again. Only her slender fingers would give her the release she needed from time to time, and this was deemed satisfactory enough.

She did not mind the act of kissing. Enveloping bruised lips. Tongues flicking playfully. Nips at the neck. Sometimes, this was very much enjoyable. Other times, MaryLynn compared the kissing techniques of some of her clients to that of a slobbering dog. Nasty. Greedy. Just sloppy, plain and simple. It was the business, unfortunately: you please the client, not the other way around.

Slowly making her way to the copper basin, the blonde woman grabbed a nearby rag and a bar of soap with a slim rope attached to it from her vanity desk. The water would be tepid by now, having been left to sit for quite a while. However, it would have to do. 'Anything to wash off this sticky mess. Honestly, why do men feel the need to squirt their juices onto me? I am not a tree to be marked! Animals, they are!' She irritably sighed aloud as she kneeled before the basin.

She dipped the rag into the water, rubbing the bar of soap into the fabric to create a thick foam. Once she began rubbing the rag over her stomach, ridding herself of the sticky substance, she moaned sweetly at the comfort of the touch. It was the simplest of things that made MaryLynn forget for just a moment how hard the nights were on her body and mind.

Dipping the rag in the basin once more, she dragged it over her thighs and around her womanhood. She had already removed the sponge from her vaginal canal and disposed of it, so the tepid water and foaming bubbles were welcomed. A hum left her lips, taking pleasure in the intimate moment where she could pamper herself.

Not a moment too soon, Connor arrived at the window, finding himself watching the blonde woman bathe. He quickly adjusted his position. From the tip of his head to his shoulders, he was visible in the window glass. Thankfully, MaryLynn's back had been facing him, so she did not see him watching. _'No,'_ he silently scolded himself. _'I should leave. She is not dressed. This is wrong of me to...watch...'_

He could not deny what his body had communicated beneath his suddenly heated clothes, feeling much too warm. Connor was aroused by the smooth curve of her tiny waist, shooting out into wide, full hips. Her supple, pale skin glistened like translucent pearls, thin streams of water falling down the dramatic dip of her lower back. Connor swallowed hard, his manhood further swelling to an aching point.

He quickly took to the roof, overwhelmed by his body's reaction. He felt as if he had betrayed MaryLynn by being aroused by her body. She was a friend, a _kind _friend, and she did not extend her services to him. However, he was still a man with needs, a virginal man fascinated by the blonde woman's natural lure and sensuality. He forced his thoughts to dwell on images of bloodied corpses and the portraits of the Templars he had intended to kill. After ten minutes of this grueling process, his arousal had eased down. Although, a remnant of the ache was still present. He would have to take care of that himself later on.

Carefully, Connor scaled down the building, back to MaryLynn's bedroom window. He was relieved to find that she was dressed in her linen nightgown, her onyx beaded rosary thrown around her neck. Hesitantly, he knocked on her window with the back of his knuckles, praying to the spirits that his manhood would not give him away.

The blonde woman looked up and smiled at her nightly visitor at the window. Her footsteps were strained, but she managed to work through the ache in her pelvis and lower stomach without a flinch.

"Oh hello, Connor," she sounded chipper, masking her depleted energy as she granted him entry. "You came at a good time."

Her slow movements did not escape the Native assassin's alert senses. She was tired. _Very_ tired. The swollen flesh under her eyes had also given away her physical state, the violet shadows framing her freshwater blue eyes. And yet, why did MaryLynn force herself to spend time with him? Didn't she wish to sleep the night away and move on to the next day? How many men did she entertain tonight? _**'Enough!'**_ Connor forced his questions away. _'No talk of business. She speaks for herself. And yet...she's clearly tired. I don't know if..'_

"I do not want to disturb you if you are tired," a semblance of his thoughts came to life through his words. "I can return another night if you wish."

"Nonsense. You have been coming here for how long now? And have I turned you away even once?"

He shook his head, "No."

"There is your answer," MaryLynn sighed softly, carefully strolling over to her bed as Connor removed his long coat and collection of weaponry.

"In all honesty, your company is a lovely ending to my day. You have no clue."

The Native assassin was not sure how to respond to her confession, busying himself with the unstrapping of his moccasin leggings and leather pouches. He scratched at the navy blue breeches, shooing away a dull ache with his fingernails.

"My mind fails me tonight," said MaryLynn, tucking herself beneath the sheets as she retrieved the leather bound book from her nightstand. "Which voyage of Sinbad are we on?"

"The seventh one," he recalled immediately, having developed a liking for the sailor.

"Ah ha. The final one."

Connor was left in his white military shirt, navy blue breeches, and worn out moccasins. His hair always remained partially tied back, the bottom layer of his shoulder length hair whisping the back of his neck. Making his way over to the bed, he sat down, his legs swung over the side. The pillows felt pleasantly cool against his back, a light groan reverberating in his throat.

"Long day?" MaryLynn asked, her lips stretching into a sympathetic expression.

"You could say that," Connor responded, blinking his eyes to chase away the strain. "You look as if you have had a long day as well."

"Do I look that bad?" she chuckled, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

"You do not look bad at all," he sputtered, becoming nervous. "I did not intend to insult you."

"No, no, I am not insulted. I just speed through my days and don't even realize how tired I am. Anyway, let me find the right page...Ah ha, here we are."

Bending her knees to prop up the book against her thighs, she began to read 'The Final Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor' as Connor eagerly awaited. In the corner of her eye, MaryLynn could see him leaning his head towards her to see the illustrations a little bit better. 'I thought he hated to be touched, no less being this close to a person. Well, I guess if he isn't fretting, it's fine.'

_"In need of his youthful spirit, Haroun al-Rashad requested for Sinbad to carry a gift to the king of Serendib. Infamous for his thirst for adventure, for purpose, Sinbad was deemed the perfect man to execute the task. Alas, after all the hardships of loss and death, the Sailor had become weary. Apologetic, with the flames of his passion flickering out in his eyes, Sinbad responds with, 'By Allah the Omnipotent, O my Lord, I have taken a loathing to wayfare, and when I hear the words, 'voyage' and 'travel,' my limbs tremble.'"_

As the tale progressed, coming to an emotionally relieving end, Connor found himself with mixed emotions. He wondered if his own missions against the Templars would be written down. Perhaps not written in letters of gold, like that of Sinbad's voyages in the tale, but nonetheless written down. It was an interesting thought, but this journey was not to be done in glory. It was to be done with passion. The ones who _live_ history are the ones who _make_ history.

"He was looking for something on these voyages," Connor contemplated aloud. "And yet, his hands remain empty. Does he find what it is he was looking for? Is he satisfied?"

Worry knit his brows and downturned the corners of his lips. No, he was not slaying mythical monsters and seeking gold, but the thought of a man looking for purpose only to find nothing...it was unsettling. Connor's weary mind would not grant him permission to contemplate such things. Besides, it was just a tale to teach lessons. Nothing more.

MaryLynn smiled sadly at the Native assassin, wishing she knew more of his days in order to give him the proper comfort. She hummed to herself, patting the yellowing pages with an open palm.

"That is for you to decide, Connor. Some people would be satisfied with this ending. His tales were shared in letters of gold. Whether he would be satisfied by this or not is up to the reader. Others would not be satisfied. It depends on what you seek in life and what it takes to satisfy you."

_'She sounds like Clan Mother. Cryptic messages,'_ Connor mused, shaking his head. Not wishing to dwell on the ending of the tale, he decided to share a piece of his life, an uncharacteristic action indeed.

"Sinbad's voyages sound like my own on the sea."

"You've sailed the seas?" the blonde woman gasped, filled with glee. "Why didn't you tell me before, you silly man!"

He shrugged his shoulders bashfully.

"You have never asked me."

"Tell me a story, Connor. Please?"

"A story?"

He was caught off guard, but Connor managed to assuage his hesitance.

"Well...I embarked on a naval mission not too long ago."

"Did you? What did you do? Are you the captain?"

He seemed to fancy the title. _Captain_. With a twitch of his lips, a lopsided smile made an appearance on his distinguished face.

"Yes. However, I captain the ship alongside another man, my first mate, who bears far more experience than I."

"What is his name?"

"William Faulker. He is an older man who has seen very much in life. He drinks too much, though. Promise me you will not become a drunk."

"Oh, Connor. Don't worry about me. I drink enough for myself. Now tell me, what was this last naval mission like?"

"It was...I do not know which English word to use to describe the feeling. I-I apologize. It is my second language."

"No need to apologize. You know more languages than I do. I sound so boring sometimes! What about the word, 'thrilling'?"

His lips twitched into another small smile.

"Yes."

"What is your crew like?"

"Dutiful. Rowdy, but they are good men nonetheless."

She noted that Connor was a very introverted man, not one to tell stories about himself. MaryLynn presented her questions with a soft voice, her eyelids drooping in a dreamy expression. This gentle approach seemed to alleviate Connor's social discomfort.

"Have you taken down ships? Are the cannons loud?"

"Yes, we have taken down ships. The explosions are 'thrilling,' as you say."

"I bet! The cannon fire blinding your sight, the explosion deafening you, the hard winds crashing against you. Connor, you truly are Sinbad, huh?"

This woman bore the enthusiasm of a child. Connor was befuddled by the two faces that MaryLynn seemed to bear. Amongst the rowdy men in the tavern, she was a curvaceous siren with puckering lips and a voice sultry enough to pull men in close like helpless puppets with gaping mouths. With him, she was wide-eyed, even shy. She welcomed him every time he visited, and always gave him a warm smile. Do not mistaken, her feminine allure did not falter when she was herself with Connor. If anything, Connor found the blonde woman precious when she spoke to him in a coy, breathy voice. The innocence she still possessed despite her wild nights was astonishing to him. He fancied this version of MaryLynn better than the vixen. Plus, she only seemed to reveal this side of her to Connor. He enjoyed not sharing her with other men who he deemed undeserving. This woman was his lovely little secret.

What was she like with her clients? The Native assassin did not wish to know. He did not wish to know what kind of men touched her. The thought bothered him. Was Connor jealous? He was not sure. All he knew was that these men possessed the chance to hurt her. It was not his business what happened in this bedroom, but he wanted to make it his business that this woman was not hurt.

"Are you satisfied here?" he questioned her, no longer able to remain quiet about his thoughts.

MaryLynn looked away with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Are you?" he attempted at the question again.

Her body thieved the reins of her control, taking her out of bed and to the vanity desk where her looking glass and trinkets resided.

She sat before a small oak wood desk, shabby with age and in need of a good polishing. Staring into a wooden framed looking glass, she brushed her fair colored hair with her fingers, trying to tame the short waves. A sensitive nerve had been plucked, and her emotions threatened to seize control of her actions. The blonde woman had moved away from Connor as if to move away from his questioning. If she was distant, then she wouldn't have to give an answer.

He knew that he was crossing a line. He knew that it was none of his business what MaryLynn did and did not do with her life. However, he could not desist from caring about her well-being. The thought of this kind woman giving herself to men who did not deserve her attention had bothered Connor very much. Even if it was all done for survival, she still deserved _more_.

"Why do you remain here? You deserve more than what you receive."

"It's what I know, Connor," she retaliated, peering down at her looking glass with a morbid expression, the hardships of her youth prancing like demons in the glass. "I make the best out of it to survive. I've told you this."

"But you can leave, can you not?"

"Connor, please stop."

He did not listen. If Connor could bring people in need to the homestead community where he lived with Achilles, then maybe...just maybe she could live there, too. She would be well fed, clothed, happy, and even tell him stories when he returned from the day's duties.

"I live in a small community not too far from here. There is more than enough room for you, and you would not have to serve anyone but yourself. If you leave, you know that I will take you there the moment you tell me to."

She bit back her angry tears. MaryLynn had already accepted her fate for the past decade. She was assaulted, labeled impure and unwanted, even told by her own mother that she was born out of sin. Why was this man insisting that she change her life when she had finally settled her path, satisfied enough? Just for his comfort? For his pity for her? She did not want nor ask for his damn pity.

Change. He made it sound so simple. MaryLynn found a routine to stay off the streets and live her life in her own way. Who was he to tell her to change her lifestyle?

"You're sweet. Really," her voice was bitter, her eyes fixed on her melancholy facial features in the looking glass. "But, I am not asking you to save me. Some people don't want to be saved. I am getting along just fine and have made peace. I thank you for caring, but please, let me make my own decisions such as this when I am willing and ready."

'Stop giving me hope! I have accepted my fate. Leave me be, you pestering man! It's not as simple and romantic as you think it is!' The blonde woman managed to ride a wave of panic by steadying her breathing. Her eyes closed as her hand was placed on her heart. Fetching the flask from her vanity desk, she unscrewed the lid to savor a loud gulp of whiskey. With anxiety stepping aside, anger began to fester beneath the surface as memories of her struggles to gain freedom in her profession arose. The filthy men. The loss of friends to jealousy. The lack of a home. She finally perfected this clandestine life, and no one, no "hero," was going to tell her what to do.

"Why are you upset?" Connor questioned her, noticing the tightening of her lips and lack of eye contact.

She demanded a moment to calm down. Her breathing rhythm was broken. The blonde woman couldn't communicate her angry thoughts at him. It frustrated her why she could not do so. MaryLynn had no trouble scolding him in the alleyway all those weeks ago. Why hesitate now? Did Connor's proposal tug at least one heart string?

A gasp here. A choke there. Another gasp, this one louder than the first. 'Not tonight. _Not_ tonight.' She drank down the whiskey, her gulps audible.

Ok...Ok…

The anxiety was shooed away for now.

"Demanding change from me is unsettling when I do not plan it. Please, let me handle _my_ life in _my_ way and when I am ready. Don't you dare pity me!"

"But-"

"Just stop!"

Connor was silenced by her outburst. She had turned away, her short blonde waves bouncing with the motion.

"Fine," he huffed, disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm for his offer. "Should you change your mind, when the time comes...you tell me."

He began to dress himself in his outer attire, planning to leave. He figured that MaryLynn did not want him in her presence any longer. He had upset her when all he wanted to do was to help her. Perhaps it was not what she wanted right now. Perhaps she wasn't ready to be forced out of her lifestyle. It sounded all too familiar.

Flipping up the white hood over his head, the Native assassin looked to her once more before departing through the open window.

"You remind me of the woman from the Arabian book," he said, his voice deep and calculating. "You offer so much, just to survive. And yet, you ask for nothing in return but your freedom. If you possessed the chance to alter your life, such as that Aladdin man had done, what would you desire?"

Silence met his ears. MaryLynn's body did not move from the vanity desk. Connor sighed aloud, pulling open the window panes. Before he could step onto the ledge, he had heard a soft voice make itself known.

"To return to King's Chapel," whispered MaryLynn. "I haven't been there in so long."

The blonde woman's body remained idle, sitting at the desk as she stared into the dead reflection of her color-drained face in the looking glass. She was done with him for tonight, her breathing having returned to a normal pace and her emotions wearing thin. He withheld a gaze of MaryLynn's body one last time.

_'Why doesn't she want to be saved? I don't understand it! It's not hard to leave this place; there is nothing of value here for her. She doesn't truly thrive here. She is not satisfied.'_ It killed him inside to hear that the blonde woman would not leave with him for a better life. However, he knew very well that nature had to take its course when the time was right. The spirits would move her, not he. And he knew this. Still...he wish he could give her something worth giving.

_'I must ask Sam where King's Chapel is.'_

* * *

**: The man that MaryLynn referred to was Benjamin Franklin, who was known to fancy prostitutes, especially if they were French. I can see him as an older gentleman type that ML would warm up to. He would educate her and tell her stories, charmed by her femininity.

++: Actual line from "The Final Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor." There are different versions of this ending, but I felt that this ending served the chapter well.

**Please note:** The chosen tales in this chapter were paraphrased. I did not want to copy word-for-word the chosen tales, so bear with me. In the 1700's, there were actually different versions of this collection of tales, boycotted in different languages. Little historical tid-bit there. ;)

* * *

_**Author's Note:** _Hello, everyone. I guess you now know what the number 1001 referred to in the first chapter! :) I truly enjoyed the idea of Connor being tamed by this lovely book. Arabian Nights is one of my favorites.

Please know that my updates will be slower than the initial weekly update plan. I have had to take a second job, and it will take time for me to settle down. So, I will write and edit when I can. Thank you in advance for your patience! The next chapter will be charming, and I look forward to finding time to sit down and organize it.

Thank you so much to those who have supported and enjoyed this story! Sorry I cannot reply to you at this moment, so I hope this general _"thank you, thank you!"_ is alright! :) I feel so bad when I can't reply right away, so I hope these words are enough. Your encouragement is amazing and swells my heart, truly. Thank you, every one of you.

~take care


	6. Leaving Tonight

**_Chapter 5: Leaving Tonight_**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, and The Maverick brothel. _

_The lyrics provided in this chapter are from the song, "Down in the Meadow," as performed by Marilyn Monroe._

_Italics: _Same meaning as usual. Native tongues and memories.

* * *

_There's a path running under the city  
_

_Where the stones and the hills divide  
_

_There's a path we can walk through the loss and the pity  
_

_She's out of the light, she thought it'd be safer  
_

_She said I wanna go home  
_

_Eyes turn grey like her face in the paper  
_

_She said I wanna go home_

_-"Leaving Tonight" _by **The Birthday Massacre**

* * *

_One Month and a Half Later_

"Ow…_Ooww_…Ouch! Why must you be so rough?"

"I'm not rough, dearie. These damn waves of yours are thick! Now, if you wan' me to cut your hair all nice, you'll 'ave to le' me brush it out smooth _first! _Now stay still, ya little-"

MaryLynn sat upon a wooden stool in the kitchen while Madame stood behind, trying to brush through the hot mess of hair upon the younger woman's head. The _one night_ she does not brush out her hair before sleep…

Once every two months, the Scottish woman would cut her best girl's hair as per request. Madame was not one to do too many favors for her girls, but something as maternal and simple as brushing another person's hair seemed to please her. She never had children, losing potential offspring to miscarriages. Unfortunately, women frequently experienced a few miscarriages before bearing an infant that, thankfully, survives. Sometimes, even the mother would not make it through the delivery. It was not meant to be.

And yet, a gaping hole in the older woman's heart still remained. Assisting in motherly tasks for her girls (menses, unexpected pregnancies, men trouble, etc.) gave her a quiet sense of purpose that she could not savor from a blood-child. Of course, the reserved Madame would never tell of this. She preferred her emotions to be kept in check and hidden, deeming it "not good for business and all."

Smoothing out the pale golden hair in one pudgy hand, Madame reaches over with her unoccupied hand for a pair of scissors lying nearby on the wooden counter.

"Cut jus' where your neck starts, righ'?" the older woman wanted to confirm before snipping away two inches of hair.

"Yes. I swear, the moment my hair is long enough, men like to pull on it during a session. I don't understand it, Madame. It doesn't feel good; it _hurts_! I pull their hair back in retaliation, but they seem to like it instead!"

The older woman chuckles aloud, trying to settle down in order to concentrate on cutting hair. Her big red curls were loose, framing her round, flushed face.

"It's instinct, I presume," mumbled Madame, snip, snip, snipping away at the golden hair.

"Well, short hair seems to detract them. Besides, I quite like it short. I don't really care for the longer hairstyle that women fancy these days. Let them stare at me like a baffoon; I prefer my hair short and neat. It doesn't get in my way as much."

"Wha'ever makes you happy. Good thinkin' on the 'short hair' bit. If it works, it works."

After a few minutes of the crisp sounds of twin blades cutting away dead ends of hair, all was finished. Madame brushed away clumps of strands from MaryLynn's shoulders with a rag, tapping her shoulder twice to signify that she was done.

"Thank you," said the blonde woman, smiling as she combed her fingers through her now shorter hair.

"Anytime, dearie," sighed Madame, brushing away her red curls from her perspiring forehead.

Just as MaryLynn was about to stand up and leave the kitchen, Madame had halted her with a whistle.

" 'ey, don' leave yet. I wan' a word with you."

MaryLynn turned to face the older woman, who was discarding the clumps of blonde hair into a waste bin. 'Why does she insist on using that tone with me? I am twenty five years old, not a child! Besides, I have not fallen behind in business. What could-' Her speculations were interrupted with a blunt statement from the seemingly omniscient older woman.

"I know tha' Native man has been comin' here. The one in tha' long white coat."

MaryLynn neither denied nor attested to this statement. Smoothing out a minor wrinkle or two in her maroon skirt, she awaited more words.

"Wha', you're not goin' to say anythin'? I don' care what you do in tha' bedroom of yours, but if he is-"

"He is not seeking me out for sex, Madame," MaryLynn spoke up, rubbing her chest where the crucifix hid beneath her blouse. "We have done no such thing. He is not a threat, and he only comes through the window because he respects your rules."

"If he respected my rules, he would not be botherin' one o' my girls."

"Connor is my friend, Madame."

"So he has a name..."

Blue eyes widened, shapely brows knit in a flustered expression.

"Of course he has a name! I don't like this antagonistic tone, and I don't like you insinuating that he bears malicious intent."

"Well, I'm sorry if my _'tone'_ is unpleasan', but you'll 'ave to deal with it, now won' you."

"What exactly are you trying to say about him, hmm? He hasn't been here in a month, so if something has happened, do not blame him."

A month and a half. Six weeks. She did not wish to dwell on the thought of Connor's absence. Men came and went; it was not something that she was unaccustomed to. Still, that tapping at her window...Sometimes she imagined that he had tapped at her window, expecting to see a dark figure behind the glass. No such thing awaited her when MaryLynn would look. Just her imagination..

No matter. Yes, no matter. A man was a man. He had business to attend to, that is all. 'Then why does this bother me on some level? I guess I just miss the one friend that I honestly talk to. I hope he is alright. I hope he is alive.'

"Nothin' has happened," Madame answered to the younger woman's sass, snapping her back to reality. "Now shut your pretty mouth and le' me speak."

MaryLynn bit into her lower lip to silence herself. Collecting herself from losing her patience, Madame spoke in a firm voice, her eyelids heavy hooded.

"Friend or not, he is still a man. Even women of our business can fancy a man from time to time. However, when I got a good look at tha' man, I saw tha' he was of the troubled sort."

"He's harmless!" she protested, her emotions for the Native assassin peeking through.

"I said he was _troubled_, not _capable of trouble_. It wasn' the weapons strapped to his waist that tol' me this, but the hard look in his eyes. He's a Man of War, MaryLynn."

Madame leaned her elbow atop the wooden counter, collecting her words carefully so that the younger woman could understand the experience she was about to reveal to her. Perhaps this maternal moment was not one of Madame's personal favorites.

"They all 'ave tha' _hard look_, them fighters. I don' care wha' color their skin is or wha' land they were born on. All Men of War have tha' same haunting look abou' them. These men don' last long when a woman is of concern. I'm simply warnin' you: should you decide that you start somethin' with this man, don' expect it to be smooth sailin'."

"I'm not in love with him," MaryLynn quickly denied the presumption, her eyes drifting away. "He's a lovely man, and he is my friend. In fact, he's the boy I met a few years ago during the massacre."

"Wait…Tha' boy shaking in his bear skins? Tha' _same_ boy? You said he was an adolescen' when you tol' me abou' him. Christ, wha' three years can do to a boy! He grew into the size of a bear!"

"Yes, well, he's rather _built_ in stature. I was shocked too when I saw him for the first time since that day."

Madame was not a woman to be easily fooled. The soft look in the blonde woman's blue eyes failed to hide the quiet affection she had for this "Connor" fellow. She had said that she was not in love with him, but there was indeed a little spark that was ignited. Rubbing her eyes, the older woman mulled over her next sentence, about to share a part of herself that had been long buried.

"Well, if you _do_ fall for him, dearie, be careful. War can be a man's **spouse**, while the woman he loves serves as his **mistress**. One overcomes the other sometimes, and there's no doubt in my mind tha' these rebels are goin' to start a war to bring down the Crown. These colonies seem to attract the bloodiest of messes ever since I first came here in the 1750's."

Looking away, Madame clears her throat, stifling any emotion to peak through from her past. Her small brown eyes drifted to the rag that lay abandoned on the counter. She took hold of the old thing, rubbing it between her pudgy palms.

"Jus' be careful, MaryLynn. He migh' be a good friend, but probably won' be a good husband."

'How bizarre,' thought MaryLynn. 'Madame never speaks to me like this. I've always wondered about her history. Am I seeing a new side to her?' The blonde woman wrung her hands, feeling nervous to ask questions. However, having known the older woman for years, having been taken care of by this woman...she just had to ask:

"Madame…d-did you love someone who fought in war?"

The older woman's rubbing of the rag had slowed down, her eyes still avoiding MaryLynn. She ran her tongue over her teeth, appearing to be overcome with recollections flashing before her dark eyes.

"It's not importan', MaryLynn," she finally said, dismissing the rag by throwing it aside. "Now, go off to the market with Emmaline. I'm out of potatoes, and I'm cravin' them like whiskey these days."

"Yes, Madame," said the younger woman, respecting her wish for privacy.

An unsettling knot in her stomach pestered MaryLynn as she ran off to complete her chores. 'Am I going to end up alone in this life? Am I going to end up like Madame? What happened to the man she loved?' She sighed aloud, shaking her head. 'Gosh, I hate thinking about the future. The unknown is the most dreadful monster I can possibly fear..'

* * *

Rotating his shoulder to ease the ache, Connor stepped onto the narrow dirt path that led to the city of Boston. His previous mission on the Aquila had taken longer than expected, having been gone for more than a month, he presumed. The Caribbean Sea was a beauty from afar, the water a deep shade of cerulean mystique. However, the sights could not be properly appreciated with the chasing of ships withholding stolen cargo along the islands. The winds were not too kind either, and steering the Aquila was harder than usual. He groaned aloud as he felt a "pop" in shoulder, hoping it would relieve the tension. _'I'll stretch later. Maybe after my meeting with Sam and Stephane.'_

It was wise to check in with his allies from time to time. There was Templar activity going about in Quebec, and sending off Stephane alone would not be the best tactic without sending backup. Luckily, Connor's concerns were relieved not too long ago today.

_Earlier this morning, he had recruited a young man named Clipper Wilkinson, who proved himself to be a valuable asset to the Assassin Order. Having heard of Connor's successes in stunting British oppression, Clipper had sought out the Native assassin to cease the recruiting of unwilling men and boys to fight in the British army. Some of these men had willingly joined due to their siding with the Loyalist movement, so this was not an issue. Others, however, were not willing to fight for their oppressors. This unfortunately had led to impromptu executions right then and there, on the streets, for all to see and cower in fear._

_Clipper, nineteen years of age (same as Connor), was against the Loyalist movement, despite his family's siding with this movement. Having eliminated the conscription agents with Connor in the southern distinct, Clipper had extended his gratitude by identifying the British officer who was responsible for the conscription and assembling of men to be recruited into the British Army. Working together as a team, the two young men assassinated the said officer. Clipper's marksmanship skills had served as a valuable asset to the liberty mission._

_Connor was quite impressed, to say the least. Clipper's dark eyes glistened with excitement and gratitude over the deed they had both executed._

_"I am in your debt, Connor," said the young man breathlessly, wiping away perspiration from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "Anything you need, you ask of me."_

_Quickly mulling over the compatibility of Clipper's expertise with Stephane's, he decided to extend an invitation to join the Brotherhood._

_"I would be honored to have you as a part of the Assassins' Order. We seek to eliminate the Templars, a group of men who have a hand in this oppression you experience with the British. Do you accept this invitation?"_

_"Yes, yes! Anything to right the wrong in this city. Hell, anything to right the wrong in all these damn colonies. Thank you!"_

_Clipper, unaware of Connor's touch aversion, had grabbed his left hand and shook it enthusiastically. Caught off guard by the young man's excitement, the Native assassin was not sure how to receive the gesture. However, he slowly shook the young man's hand in return. He nodded, quietly appreciating Clipper's gratitude._

_"Good. Your skills will be needed, and you have proven this. We will keep in touch. I have another recruit living here in Boston. Perhaps you know him._

Returning to the present moment, Connor had entered Stephane's quiet tavern, a little abashed to find two unfamiliar faces sitting at the bar with Sam. The statesman's dark eyes, framed with crinkles of laughter, captured sight of Connor's arrival, waving his hand for him to come closer.

"Connor! Perfect timing. I'd like you meet a couple of 'like-minded' men, if you will."

The greeting was rather awkward. The unknown men did not expect a Native man to be fighting alongside them, but seemed to accept him nonetheless. Connor resorted to his infamous nodding of acknowledgement. It was a favorable gesture of his, not having to say a word and yet the gesture communicated enough without speaking.

"Connor!" Stephane called out in a thick French accent from the kitchen, making his way out with a rag in hand. "So you've returned, _mon ami_. I have been receiving information in secrecy on the whereabouts in Quebec."

"I am glad to hear this. I have a new recruit to aid you in missions over in Quebec. His marksmanship skills are very good, and he will serve you well. I have given him your information, so I hope it is alright that he arrives sometime soon to learn from you."

"Excellent. I look forward to meeting him."

Business talk progressed amongst the gentlemen. William Johnson's whereabouts were under the radar as of now. However, there was still some activity detected near lands where Iroquois tribes resided. Were secret meetings being held? Had the man progressed in his efforts to purchase lands that did not belong to him? Connor picked away at his leather gloves, his eyebrows knitting tightly over the thought of this man's incessant need to thieve precious homes from his people. It was not welcomed at all.

Sam's information gathering on Johnson was spot on. He had kept his promise to Connor, after the Boston Tea Party, to keep track of William Johnson. Little by little, the statesman was gaining Connor's trust. And yet, the young man was still hesitant to fully accept him as an ally, as a friend. The dreaded nipping away of "what if" scenarios never seemed to leave his mind. In truth, he trusted no one. However, in this upcoming war, he had to gain allies or fight the masses alone. It was business, and it should be kept business.

Once the meeting was adjourned, Connor had pulled aside Sam for a moment, choosing his words carefully. The pair of men stood before a long window, the afternoon sun peeking in on their hushed conversation.

"Sam, I must ask you something," he spoke quietly.

"Yes, Connor, anything. What is it?"

"Where is King's Chapel located?"

"Oh, King's Chapel. Luckily, it is not too far from here. Once you step out of Stephane's tavern, you…Erm, may I ask why you wish to know? I don't think your people practice Christianity, unless my ignorance has just embarrassed me, ha ha."

"No, my people do not practice your religion. However, I am asking for the location of this religious place because I have a friend that wishes to visit."

"A friend? Do I know this friend?"

Connor looks away with hesitance, focusing on the faint dust particles dancing the sunlight. He crosses his arms before his broad chest, clearing his throat. He shrugs his shoulders slightly, the only response he could muster.

"Aahh, I see," chuckled Sam, finding the young man's reluctance amusing. "Alright, alright, I won't ask for her name. Just remember that King's Chapel is a place of worship. Even though sermons have not been conducted in that chapel for years, it is still a sanctuary."

"I understand. I would never desecrate a place such as this," Connor affirmed this, his arms uncrossing and his gaze firm.

"I know you wouldn't Connor. You are too noble and disciplined to be a thoughtless young man."

Noble and disciplined. Those words seemed to echo in Connor's mind, over and over. They were favorable adjectives, the sort of adjectives he was not accustomed to hearing from colonials. "Savage" was a common racial slur had he learned to brush off. However, to hear Sam compliment him, and to keep his promise just as he had said he would, Connor felt just a little…_secure_.

"..Thank you, Samuel," murmured the Native assassin, looking the older man dead in the eye.

To the outsider, these manners were expected. To the ones who knew Connor a little better, this was a big step for him, for he began to learn to trust, to show an iota of his vulnerability. However, he quickly withdrew from the moment, bidding goodbye to the group of gentlemen as he exited the tavern.

"What was that about King's Chapel?" asked Stephane, his hearing as sharp as a dagger.

"You listened in, you nosey bastard?" Sam asked with a loud laugh.

"I am a keeper of a tavern. My ears and eyes are _everywhere_. Fear me!" joked the Frenchman, making his way around the dark wood bar to stand across from where Sam had stood.

"Connor was curious over where King's Chapel was located. For a 'friend,' he had said. He seemed introverted over the mentioning of whom this friend was."

Stephane snorted at the observation, his beady black eyes narrowed with mischief.

"_Une femme. _A woman."

"_Exactly_."

"I have heard of taking a woman to a nice tavern, or perhaps to a theater exhibition, but a _chapel_? He's an odd young man. Acts much too old for his age."

"Can you blame him? He is dead set on fighting an oppressing organization. That can age a man very much, my friend."

"Ahh. _That_ is a recipe for a drinking problem, I'm afraid."

"Speaking from experience, ol' boy?"

"_Tais toi_! Shut up!"

* * *

"_Old lady black bird_

_Flirts with the scarecrow_

_The scarecrow's waving at the moon_

_Old Mr. Moon makes_

_Hearts everywhere go_

_Bump…Bump…_

_With the magic of June.."_

A month away from her velvety voice felt like an eternity to Connor as he sat atop the same wooden awning. _His _awning. As odd as this was, having been MaryLynn's dear friend for months, Connor still enjoyed the secrecy of listening to her sing. If he was alone to listen in, it was as if she sang just for him, _only_ him. The inner child within him wanted to keep her a secret like a wonderful dream that would disappear if set free.

Each time Connor heard this particular song, the rare mercy of Time had pulled the Native assassin's consciousness away and into the moments where he was just a little boy, roaming around in the woods like a proud lion cub. He was curious, not easily startled, and never failed to read the clues nature left behind to lead him home to his village. MaryLynn's voice brought him into the tall grass of the deeper woods, rustling about fallen leaves and broken twigs. He could feel the sun's embrace around his little body, the spirits guarding him like sentinels running after their little prince. All was peaceful. All was secure. _Ista_ (Mother) was still alive, calling him home after staying in the woods longer than he was permitted.

The song ended with the rumble of men shouting and clapping. Connor was thieved of his peaceful memories and dropped back into his nineteen-year-old athletic body, realizing Time had ended this extension of mercy. Sighing aloud, he pulled the pointed lip of his white hood further over his eyes just before jumping down to the cobblestone streets. MaryLynn was due to be finished with her singing routine at the Green Dragon Tavern. He intended to meet her unexpectedly in her bedroom, just as he usually did before leaving for the naval mission.

Swiftly navigating the back roads of the alley, he easily located The Maverick and began scaling the wall of the right side. Up to the blonde woman's window he went, passing it as he reached the roof. Connor planned to locate MaryLynn leaving the tavern and entering The Maverick before awaiting her at the bedroom window. No use in hanging by the window's ledge like an empty headed fool.

Ten minutes passed by before Connor spotted a woman leaving the Green Dragon Tavern, a black handkerchief scarf wrapped around her head. Frizzed locks of pale gold poked through the scarf, alluding to her identity. Once MaryLynn entered the brothel safely, Connor began to make his way down the brick wall and to her window. It was not too long before she had entered her bedroom, locating a matchbox on her nightstand to light a couple of candles. Once she did so, a golden glow illuminated the room. THe blonde woman looked up to find a dark, undistinguishable figure at her window.

"Dear _Jesus_!" she yelped aloud, grabbing the material of her bodice in a small fist.

MaryLynn heard the dark figure shyly knock three times with the back of his knuckles. Sighing softly, she recognized those knocks immediately. Partially relieved, partially excited to see her dear friend, MaryLynn rushed to the window to unhook the lock, opening the window panes to find a white hood, a pair of full lips, and dark copper skin that glowed every time he stepped into the ethereal candlelight.

"Connor, it's you," she breathed, her voice barely there.

Her pale hands remained on the window panes, her eyes wide as she slowly imbibed the pleasant sight of the Native assassin at her window after having disappeared for a month.

"MaryLynn?" Connor was befuddled over her lack of attention. "May I come in or am I not permitted?"

"Oh! Oh, I'm sorry. I lost my focus for a moment. You're always permitted to come in."

The blonde woman steps back to grant Connor space to step in. He brings the subtle warmth of the spring night with him as his heavy feet make contact with the wood paneled floor. His nervous eyes look to her own pair, glittering in his direction. He felt his nervous tension increase over the woman's warm smile. He knew he hadn't visited her in a while, and he had felt guilt despite the importance of his missions. Connor began to rub the back of his head, attempting to collect his words.

Folding her hands before her stomach, MaryLynn knew him well enough that when the Native assassin took more than a moment to speak, he was trying his best to muster up the words. She patiently awaited his deep voice. Ceasing the rubbing his head, Connor squared his broad shoulders and his hands dropped to his sides.

"I…I have not been a good friend to you recently."

"Connor, I'm not offended-"

"Please. Allow me to finish."

She remained silent, surprised by his urgency to speak. He usually preferred to be the recipient of the conversation, not the initiator.

"Our last meeting ended in an awkward manner. I did not intend to upset you. I have been on a naval mission since then, and have returned about two days ago. I wish to redeem myself for this absence, MaryLynn."

His hands had left his sides, his palms facing the woman as they spread out before him.

"I wish to take you to King's Chapel."

"Wh-what?" she stuttered, her folded hands coming undone as her lips parted in surprise. "I-I-I don't know.."

'No, no, not the panic. This is just a surprise, not a threat. No one even goes to the chapel anymore. Those women won't be there. Relax, for Christ's sake.' She turns away from Connor with her thoughts. The last time she had visited King's Chapel she had left upset, embarrassed. Laughter. Whispering. All about her.

She did not wish to remember at the moment. Her mind shooed away the unpleasant recollections.

"What is wrong?" Connor asks. "You had told me once that you wished to return to King's Chapel. I can take you there."

"I-I understand. Be patient with me, please. It's just been so long and I did not expect this."

He nodded, hoping that she would accept his surprise offering. He watched as MaryLynn made her way to the wooden desk where her trinkets and looking glass lay. _Déjà vu,_ as Stephane would say. This moment had occurred once before.

Peering down at the looking glass, the blonde woman came to meet the shy girl that returned the gaze. An index finger traced the outline of the looking glass, mulling over the offer. It had been about ten years since that dreadful day she stood at the entrance of King's Chapel. That woman and her husband were long gone. The woman had deemed a young MaryLynn to be a harlot to the women in her social circle, when it was, in actuality, her husband who had laid his greedy hands upon the adolescent girl without consent.

MaryLynn growled at the thought, shaking her head.

_Enough._

That woman was a twat! Who was she to judge her for something she did not commit? The woman once took care of the orphaned MaryLynn as if she were a daughter, her husband having brought her in from the chapel. However, her warm touch quickly became a cold slap in the face when her husband claimed, "This girl is trouble, my love." There was no way that woman was going to affect MaryLynn ten years later. Not like this. Not when she was the one who had done nothing wrong.

"Not tonight," she firmly whispered to herself, the recollection of the women's soft laughter in the back pew of the chapel fading in the background. "Not tonight" was the golden statement to rescue her from a potential panic episode.

"I understand," said Connor, disappointment softening his voice.

"No! I did not mean you, Connor. I was thinking out loud concerning something else."

Like a child, his eyes widened with relief at her words. The blonde woman tightened the black handkerchief scarf around her head and neck, a look of determination jutting her chin out and firming her gaze towards Connor.

"Well? Shall we?" she spoke in a clear voice, differing from the withdrawn, breathy voice from before.

Connor fought to stifle a smile from gracing his lips. He hid the expression by pretending to scratch the bridge of his nose.

"We may have to take an alternate route to the chapel," he had informed, a stoic expression chasing away the quiet glee in his eyes.

"An alternate route?" MaryLynn reiterated, raising her eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Umm…It is better if I show you this rather than tell you," he advised, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The Native assassin came close to giving up on trying to hide his happiness in front of the blonde woman in this moment. Oh so temptingly close.

* * *

The Boston streets at night were not the wisest way of travel. Patrols of red coats were tighter at night, believe it or not, in case rebels skittered about in secrecy to locate their next meeting place. With the slaughtering of red coats and taxman over the past several months, security in the city became tighter. This information only made Connor smirk. This was an opportunity to make use of the Freemason Tunnels. He hadn't visited these underground tunnels since he was fifteen years old. Sam Adams had introduced him to the location on becoming incognito after being chased by red coats during the Boston Massacre.

Navigating through the alleyways, Connor would advance on the balls of his feet to certain corners, motioning for MaryLynn to follow his movements. Holding her hand might have made this situation easier, but the thought did not cross his mind. He often worked alone, and usually an ally held their own during missions. Even if the idea had came to Connor, he would rather hide away in a haystack. The warmth of her skin both intimidated and intrigued him, but, nonetheless, it was better to not touch his friend. The line had to be drawn, especially if his time was inconsistent. She deserved a man's full attention, anyway. At least Connor thought so. One personal touch, and he would be drawn in to her allure. It was too nice to risk when it was only meant to leave him with cold, empty hands. The Native assassin's heart was not ready to open.

The pair had arrived at the entrance of the underground tunnels, avoiding the patrol of four red coats positioned in front of the building. In the back area of the said building were the slanted rickety doors of the entrance to the tunnels. Illegible messages had been carved into the deteriorating wood, the words sloppy and hardly carved in a straight line. MaryLynn began to finger the beads of her rosary as she watched Connor quietly open the doors wide. The color in her face drained away as her gaze lingered on the darkness that lurked past those doors.

"What's down there?" she asked, grasping the onyx beads for comfort.

"Underground tunnels. They lead to numerous areas of Boston. It is meant for clandestine travel, away from peering eyes."

The darkness lurking about in the unknown was unsettling. Usually, the dark meant danger, where a monster awaited to latch on and harm her. In MaryLynn's case, the darkness of an alleyway had always alerted her of the possible dangers hiding in the corners.

"Do not be frightened," Connor assured the woman, softening the tone of his voice. "I have been down there before. Nothing will hurt you."

She exhaled deeply just before agreeing.

"Alright. If you say so."

"Believe me, these tunnels are safer for you and I to reach the chapel undetected. There are red coats patrolling about during the night, and we have a better chance of accessing King's Chapel through these underground pathways."

"Will you promise me that you won't lose me?"

Connor withheld a meaningful gaze with her wide eyes, seeing that her fist clenched her rosary out of habit.

"You have my word," he spoke firmly, his eyebrows rising in a comforting expression.

He motioned with his hand to follow him as he stepped down into the pit of darkness. There were steps that she could not see. She decided to trust his words, and slowly stepped down onto the first step. Once she reached the second to last step, Connor had rushed back up the steps to close the rickety entrance doors.

Darkness.

Nothing could possibly be seen.

"C-Connor?" MaryLynn stuttered, her fist tightening its hold. "I want t-to go home."

"I am still here," came the deep voice she had grown to feel secure when hearing it.

His voice came from the right side of where she stood. Within a few seconds, a lantern was lit. Connor had held the lantern at shoulder height as he looked to the startled woman. Was she shaking? It amazed him how MaryLynn could be a woman one moment, and a little girl the next. She was an odyssey at times.

Connor's face was illuminated in a deep golden glow. The fear she experienced when looking into the darkness of the tunnels had dissipated once he stepped up to her, bringing the glow of the lantern's light with him. The blonde woman was now bathed in the golden light as she looked up to his face. The shadows had exaggerated the hollow of his cheeks and the deep set eyes that stared down upon her.

"There you are," MaryLynn exhaled aloud, her hand leaving the onyx beads of her rosary.

Connor cleared his throat, looking away from the dancing fire that reflected in her glistening eyes.

"Stay close," he advised curtly, walking away from MaryLynn. "Oh, and do not be alarmed if you see rats down here."

"_Rats_? You did not tell me there would be _rats_ down here! Uugghh. Pesky little bastards..."

* * *

_**Author's Note:**_ Hello everyone. Once again, thank you for your patience. I am still training and getting used to my second job (how's a 4:45 a.m. shift sound? :P), but I am writing here and there. More information on MaryLynn's memory of the women laughing at her in the chapel will become more clear in the next chapter. I kept it brief because I plan on ML telling Connor this story. The woman is the wife of the man who found a young ML in King's Chapel and brought her home to take care of (as mentioned in the **Introduction** of this story). No worries, as I said, it will be clear next chapter.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your support. I appreciate you all very much for your time and am happy to hear you are enjoying this story. Again, I am sorry if I have not been PMing as I usually did before, so I hope a general **"Thank You!"** and** "I love you!"** is alright.

Have a lovely week!

~take care


	7. Like a Prayer

_**Chapter 6: Like a Prayer **_

_Life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone_

_I hear you call my name_

_And it feels like home_

_[Chorus:]_

_When you call my name it's like a little prayer_

_I'm down on my knees, I wanna take you there_

_In the midnight hour I can feel your power_

_Just like a prayer you know I'll take you there_

_I hear your voice, it's like an angel sighing_

_I have no choice, I hear your voice_

_Feels like flying_

_I close my eyes, Oh God I think I'm falling_

_Out of the sky, I close my eyes_

_Heaven help me_

_[Chorus]_

_Like a child you whisper softly to me_

_You're in control just like a child_

_Now I'm dancing_

_It's like a dream, no end and no beginning_

_You're here with me, it's like a dream_

_Let the choir sing_

_[Chorus]_

_Just like a prayer, your voice can take me there_

_Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery_

_Just like a dream, you are not what you seem_

_Just like a prayer, no choice your voice can take me there_

_Just like a prayer, I'll take you there_

_It's like a dream to me_

- _"Like a Prayer"_ by **Madonna**

I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick.

I provided the full lyrics to the song "Like a Prayer" by Madonna because this is what inspired this whole story. :) I hope you enjoy.

_Italics:_ thoughts/speech in native tongue and memories

* * *

"They will not bother you if you do not bother them," Connor reasoned, concerning the rats.

"That is more than fine with me. It doesn't mean that I have to _like_ them."

Connor shook his head, smirking lightly at MaryLynn's scrunched up nose. She reminded him of a rabbit that he would encounter in the woods: easily startled, curiosity beyond measure, scrunching of the nose while the eyes narrowed. It was amusing to watch her open disgust of rodents, her facial expressions so dramatic.

The pair began their underground trek with a right hand turn up a wide corridor with nailed down, wooden planks as steps. Connor led the way, the lantern held up with his left hand. The blonde woman followed closely, careful not to bump into his broad back. Along the way, Connor would light candles on the walls to keep track of their path, gaining more light. The handle of the lantern squeaked from time t time with each turn, the high-pitched sound piercing the air. MaryLynn had mistaken the sound for a nearby rat.

"What was that? Was that a rat? I heard a squeak!" she whispered frantically, eyes darting about her surrounding.

Her hands darted forward for Connor's bicep, forgetting momentarily that he did not like to be touched. A flinch of his arm rattled beneath MaryLynn's hands.

He slowly turned his head to look down at the small hands that grasped his bicep. Making an _"oops"_ sound, the blonde woman immediately released her hold, keeping her hands close to her chest. She apologized quietly. He turned his head back around, continuing the path.

"It is just the lantern," sighed the Native assassin, choosing to focus on the lantern than her warm touch. He saw no reason to fear rodents. He and MaryLynn were fully clothed, so contracting a disease by the touch of a rodent was not likely.

"O-ok," she stutters, pulling out her rosary from her bodice.

Eventually, the pair had come across a red door where a small barrel of gunpowder was settled. Connor squinted his eyes at the red door, discerning if this was the appropriate way. MaryLynn stepped forward to see his concentrated face. 'What is he looking for? I don't see anything but a door. Perhaps, I am just blind.' Advancing forward, Connor attempts to open the red door. It did not budge. Hmmm…hence the gunpowder barrel.

"Stand back," he commands, stepping backwards to create a safe distance from the barrel.

Putting down the lantern by his feet, he reaches for his pistol, aiming at the barrel.

"What are you-?"

_**BOOM!**_

Her inquiry was interrupted by a loud explosion. Once the black smoke cleared, her coughing echoing in the corridor, a brand new opening was revealed.

"Are you _**mad**__?!"_ shouts the startled woman, her heart pounding hard against her bosom.

"It worked, did it not?" the Native assassin reasoned, a subtle smile on his lips. He quickly retrieved the lantern at his feet.

'There it is again,' she thought with a cocked eyebrow. 'That small smile. Albeit unnoticeable at times, that was still a _smile_. How oblivious is he about a beautiful smile? How lovely his smile is?' Connor quickly turned away to continue their trek to the chapel.

"How do you know that this is the correct way? That door was inaccessible. Well, until you _blew it up_…"

"I have abilities in tracking down my destinations, as well as tracking down certain people."

Connor was referring to "Eagle Vision," an extrasensory ability inherited by assassins of a certain bloodline tracking all the way back to the Beings of the First Civilization. This vision granted Connor the ability to discern how certain people related to him. An aura of sorts would be seen glowing around the person he chose to look upon.

Ally (blue).

Target or Person of Interest (gold).

Enemy or Bloodshed (red).

Source of Information (white).

As for destination, the Native assassin was able to see old signs drawn as arrows on the walls of the tunnels that modern eyes could not see. Again, he could not divulge into this secret meant only for brotherhood ears.

He never used his Eagle Vision on MaryLynn for some odd reason. He was naturally suspicious, and preferred to know exactly what a person's intentions were before progressing any further. Perhaps an unconscious part of him did not wish to truly know of his affiliation with the blonde woman. Whatever his Eagle Vision revealed concerning the person was usually accurate. Perhaps he did not want to risk being disappointed in some way. She was a true friend, and any further knowledge on her status in relation to him would be much too much for his brain to handle. Or so he feared. Fears are often exaggerated within one's mind. What if he enjoyed what he found, only to lose her at some point? T was something not new to him.

Connor clears his throat aloud.

"Come. We are almost there."

After another right turn…up a long corridor…yet another right turn past a large hole in the wall…and a left turn, the pair arrived at a large circular room where there appeared to be a bulky projector atop an ancient stand. A few feet before this contraption, also known as a "magic lantern," was a wide, wood paneled door with a sign above that read, "To King's Chapel" in sloppy handwriting. Connor walks up to the projector, using the lantern to light a small candle within the projector. A millisecond after the candle was lit, a ball of light appeared on the door ahead. Four images appeared with the light in a circular pattern:

A Globe.

A Crucifix.

A Wheel.

A Scale.

"_Marvelous_," breathes MaryLynn in amazement as she watches Connor flip around the images on the projector. "What are you doing?"

Connor leans over slightly, fiddling with the projector in deep concentration.

"I am looking for a combination that will give us entry through this door. Puzzles lie throughout these tunnels if one wishes to access certain areas of Boston."

"Slightly paranoid, are they not?"

Connor does not answer her. He is far too immersed in succeeding to crack the code of the image combination. MaryLynn shrugged her shoulders, leaving the Native assassin to his puzzle. An audible squeak pierced the air. She immediately wrapped her arms around herself.

"That was the magic lantern," MaryLynn said, desperate to believe it was the projector that had squeaked. "Right, Connor? That was just the magic lantern?"

"Nnno," Connor stretched the syllable out as he focused on arranging the images on the projector. "That was a rat that had made a noise."

Blue eyes enlarged, pupils dilated to pin-points.

"You know you could _lie to me _and say it was _not _a rat!" she tries to keep her voice down, her tone cracking with nervousness. "Are you done? Please, hurry."

"I am almost done," he assures in a firm voice, becoming very irked by being rushed. "I have a better idea on the correct combination. _Be patient_."

MaryLynn nods, her lips thinning into a tight line at his commanding tone. Looking about frantically, the blonde woman is vigilant of any dark little figures pitter-patting along the ground. Her left foot twitches, alluding to her readiness to whip off her boot and throw it at any pesky rodent to come within ten feet of her.

"Come near me, will you," she murmurs. "Damn disease carrying, filthy things. I'm ready for you."

Finally, a heavy "clunk" sound was heard. With a satisfying smirk, Connor cracked the code of the images: Crucifix in the north; Wheel in the west; Globe in the east; and Scale in the south.

"How did…How does," the blonde woman is befuddled by this puzzle unlocking the door up ahead.

Connor stood up straight, turning his head over his shoulder with a smirk.

"It is a mystery. The trick is to work through the mystery. Asking too many questions only slows down the process."

"I would still like to know how that projector unlocks that door," she insists, her hands firmly placed on her hips.

"I do not know why," says Connor, bending over to pick up the lantern. "There is nothing wrong with the unknown."

And with that said, he turns his head around and begins walking toward the large door. Pulling on the rusty old knob, he opens the door wide, the creaking sounds of the hinges alluding to its ancient state. MaryLynn quickly makes her way to the door, catching up with the Native assassin.

* * *

And there she stood before the chapel doors, the cracks in the wood revealing its age. The width of the doors intimidated her, as if this wide entrance withheld something unbearable to human eyes. Was this real? Was she truly here?

Her hand inched towards the iron handle, flinching at the chill of the metal. 'It's just a door. It's just a building. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.' The pair ended up standing before the doors for a good ten minutes. Not once did Connor rush her.

"I'm scared," she confesses in a barely there voice.

"The past is the past," he says to her with the patience of an angel. "It does not exist in this moment. Let it lay where it will."

How could he understand so much and yet be so young? He was so awkward in social situations, and yet was the wisest person when she least expected it. With her back facing him, his voice came to her as if he were a guardian, quietly bestowing words of encouragement when it was needed. Little did she know, he still struggled with the same lesson he had just spoken of. The past haunted him every night, and letting go was something far more difficult than infiltrating a fort or slaying dozens of soldiers. He found himself to be a hypocrite, nothing like a guardian as the blonde woman had thought of him.

"You are right," she whispers. "I must face at least _one fear_ in this lifetime."

Breathing in cool air, she opens one door quickly, her eyes shut tight. He notices that she is stiff in her position, her head bowed down. He knows that she is not looking inside the chapel.

"It is ok to look. Nothing is in there."

Again, his voice grants some kind of confidence in her palpating heart. She believes. She believes again. Opening her eyes, MaryLynn looks inside the chapel. It was dark, but the pale light of the full moon, pouring through the stained glass windows, had given a soft lighting to the dark wood pews. The altar at the end of the red velvet aisle seemingly glowed where it stood.

And she exhaled a long imprisoned breath, permitting serenity in her palpitating heart. The blonde woman's stiff body melted like ice in the hot sun, her limbs lowering and her shoulders loosening. With a quivering hand leaving the iron door handle, she stepped into the chapel with steady footsteps. The air was painfully still in the surrounding. MaryLynn could not discern if the chapel was warm or chilly. Nonetheless, she removed her black handkerchief scarf from around her head, her golden waves free to breathe. Suckling in another deep breath, she advances.

Connor waits motionless at the doorway entrance, feeling unsure about entering this place of worship. In his village, beforemeeting with Clan Mother, it was respectful to address her formally and wait until the wise woman granted permission for one to sit down. One was only allowed to speak when the wise woman permitted one to. He was reminded of this, and hoped that a similar gesture would be appropriate. And yet, the pestering feeling of doubt gnawed on his mind. Mimicking the blonde woman's removal of her handkerchief scarf, he removed his white hood.

"I am not sure how to properly enter this place," Connor admits, his shoulders tight. "Is there a proper gesture required of me before entering?"

"No," she sighed lightly, "you are free to come in. God accepts people of differing beliefs. At least, I like to think He does. I presume a bow is appropriate since you do not practice Christianity. Even though this chapel has been abandoned, it is still a sanctuary."

Nodding slowly, Connor still felt uneasy about this foreign place of worship. With a stern expression, his facial features like stone, he bows deeply from the waist before proceeding into the chapel. Scanning the dark area thoroughly, relying on his Eagle Vision for a moment or two, he locates four lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Two hanging lanterns loomed over the back sections of the pews, while the other two loomed over the front sections of the pews. Lighting these lanterns would give MaryLynn better sight of the chapel. Observing her, the Native assassin sees that the woman is still in her stance, looking around the chapel in silent awe. Her eyes imbibed each shadow and highlight dancing upon the wooden pews. _'She should not be in the dark,' _thought Connor. '_This is no way to visit.' _

Making his way over to the left side of the back section of pews, Connor was hesitant in climbing atop the pews to access the hanging lanterns. He thoughtfully nods his respect before climbing a pew to light the first hanging lantern.

And with the first lighting, the back section of the pews burst with an ethereal radiance. MaryLynn's eyes darted to the newborn golden light. Her body thieved the reins of her control, and brought her to the red velvet center aisle. The light…it was so…dazzling.

A second hanging lantern was lit a minute later. Her head darted toward the other light, her golden waves bouncing with the quick motion.

Then a third lantern was lit.

Then a fourth.

And now, a dreamland had been revealed from beneath the formerly melancholy chapel. The dark wood pews. The ruby velvet carpet lining the center aisle. The tall podium, draped in ivory silk, waiting at the end of the aisle. The large, beautifully woven tapestry of Christ's resurrection on the third day after his crucifixion, a halo of light depicted around his head. And there it was, her favorite piece of the chapel: the golden tabernacle off to the far right, the little doors sealed shut.

The blonde woman's fingers had been splayed across her cheeks, her blue eyes glittering at the lovely sight before her. She was a little girl again, finding her sanctuary away from her mentally ill mother. In this place, she was not a bastard child, a stained girl. She was welcomed, and was a child of a loving Father. Tears crowned at the corners of her eyes as she slowly walked down the center aisle, entering a pleasant memory she had long forgotten.

The Native assassin watched with fascination as he stood amongst the pews, watching his dear friend bask in the golden light, a look of gentle ecstasy on her heart shaped face. His heart felt warmed by this sight. He had never seen her so happy. Wanting to respect her privacy, Connor slides out of the pews, and makes his way to the back of the chapel. He decides to sit in the last pew on the left hand side, his elbows resting on his knees. With quiet curiosity, he watches MaryLynn look around the entire chapel, dazzled by the colors of the stained glass windows.

She turns around, walking backwards for a moment as she continues to look around like the little girl enchanted by an old home. She used to hide in this place. It was hers to sneak away into. She turned back around to face forward, reaching the podium. The blonde woman touches the ivory silk draped over the podium, her fingers basking in the texture.

Connor was willing to wait all night for her, for as long as she wanted to stay in King's Chapel. Her happiness seemed to be contagious, for even Connor felt a subtle tickle of joy. He had finally given her something worthwhile for all the kindness she had showed him.

He was _happy_. He was happy to see _her_ happy.

MaryLynn slowly leaves the podium, her hand trailing away from the silk. She walks toward the tabernacle. The wonderment that had been brightening her face now dimmed with a soft affection. Her slim fingers trace over the grapevine patterns of the golden doors, the cool sensation of the metal kissing her fingertips.

Turning around swiftly, she waves Connor over. Acceding to her wish, the Native assassin slowly rises from his seat in the last pew, his back popping. Rotating his shoulder, he makes his way cautiously down the center aisle, his moccasins rubbing audibly against the red velvet. _Swish. Swish_. She waits for him to arrive, looking down at her black boots like a shy child. Once Connor stands before her, the blonde woman looks up at him with a warm smile, the words spilling from her lips.

"I used sit right here, looking up at this tabernacle," she says, mimicking exactly where she sat on the floor, pulling her knees to her bosom. "Call me naïve and strange, but I loved the idea of living in a small, golden house. The Eucharist would be kept in this tabernacle, but I wanted to magically shrink in size, climbing inside with my rosary and hide away."

Her eyes were drawn away from Connor, and he saw a bittersweet smile stretch her lips.

"Whom would you hide from?"

"My mother. I was, uh…I was born out of wedlock. She tried to be a good mother, but she was ill. Not physically, but in here," MaryLynn taps her forehead, signifying that her mother was mentally ill. "When I was twelve, she went into hysteria, and said I was born with a stain, a bastardized child not worthy of blessings. I ran away before she could attack me, and I hid here in this chapel for quite some time."

"You _do_ deserve blessings."

The blonde woman shakes her head, that bittersweet smile deepening along with the sadness in her eyes.

"You are sweet," she says in a rasp, clearing her throat. "_Naïve_, but sweet."

"I mean what I say, MaryLynn. You did nothing wrong. I never asked to be an illegitimate child either."

"You were born out of wedlock as well?"

Connor nodded hesitantly, dodging a spoken answer by asking a question of his own.

"Did you live in this chapel? What would you do when ceremonies were held?"

"Ceremonies? Oh, you mean sermons. Well, I would have to either leave or stay for the sermon. I would usually resort to leaving the chapel, because the minister would speak of punishment and fear. Honestly, he rather scared me, speaking of people burning and suffering in Hell for their disobedience to God. I never felt comfortable with that view of God. I mean, as a child, I was afraid of burning myself for I was born illegitimate. Would I burn for that? I wanted a _loving_ God, not a _vengeful_ God.

"So, I would linger at the market place until the sermon was over. The minister would shoo me away, but I would sneak in when the old fool would leave. And you know…I never felt unwelcomed here. I felt loved by my God regardless of what I was told. I thought my life would be alright when this man found me, later adopting me into his family."

"Did this man give you a good home?"

Connor did not sense a pleasant ending to this story, but questioned nonetheless. What was wrong with these colonists? This would not occur in his village. No. He was accepted by his people, even though his mother did not have a husband, even though the man she conceived her son with was a Britishman…a _Templar_. Connor, or _Ratohnhak__é__:ton_, was still loved and given a the security of a community. What kind of system did these colonists have? He knew he should not judge a different system, but to see MaryLynn, his dear friend, reliving a morbid time, an illegitimate child like himself…he could not refrain from questioning such things.

"At first," answered MaryLynn, retrieving Connor from his escalating anger. "This seemingly kind man heard me giggling and running around. He was visiting the gravestones apparently. He took me home to his family, and I was adopted as one of their own. But then things had changed, as I grew older. I was fourteen years old, and the kind man became greedy once he noticed how my body had blossomed into that of a young woman. He touched me when I did not want to be touched, and I fought my way to run off. I was upset once I was safe, and his wife had found me huddled in the backyard. She had comforted me, not knowing what had happened. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. I just cried. I think it was around this time when I began to have panic episodes.

"The man spun the story off as me being a 'troubled girl,' saying that I had tried to seduce him into sex. The wife, who once held me, now slapped me, calling me a whore. I left that house and never looked back. A week later, I returned to the chapel, hoping to find some peace, but there was the wife and her tightly knit circle of ladyfriends. They sat in that last pew on the right hand side. She captured a glimpse of me standing at the end of the aisle, and smirked wickedly my way. She whispers to her friends as the minster is speaking, and they all look and snicker at me. All I could hear was, "_whore_," "_harlot_," "_tramp_." I ran out crying, covering my face with my hands. I never came back to this place until now. I lived off the streets for a year until I was fifteen years old. Madame had found me next to a pile of crates, curled up and desperate for warmth. She took me to the brothel, and cared for me. She was nothing like the previous family. Her actions towards me never changed, and whatever mistakes I made, she never turned me away. And the rest is history…"

Absentmindedly, she walks over to the pew across from the tabernacle and sits down. Looking down at her hands, she remains quiet for moment before saying, "That is why I was afraid of coming back. I was afraid of reliving that humiliation of being accused of something I never committed. The man got away with his ill intentions, and I was the so-called whore."

A spark of silent anger ignited in Connor's stomach. Why did the wicked live on with their deeds, while the innocent suffered? It was a theme he knew all too well. The wicked survived. Charles Lee survived when his mother was burned alive. A different story, but the same underlying suffering was evident. The Native assassin begins to pace, trying to control his anger. His nostrils flared as memories of his own past and the words spoken by MaryLynn clashed and collided. As silent as he was, his mind was loud and unsettling like a thunderstorm. MaryLynn squeezed her hands together, worrying over how upset Connor was. Should she have kept her mouth shut? Did she say too much? Heat flushed her cheeks, feeling embarrassed.

"Connor, I'm sorry if I upset you. I-I am sorry if I said too much. I just…my heart opens up and I.."

"Forget them."

"What?"

He stops pacing, walking over to where she sat. He looks down into those blue eyes deeply, his gaze intense. She shivered while under his gaze, feeling as if she could hide nothing from him, for he would surely see the truth.

"For. Get. Them. These people, they did not nor do they deserve your attention. You came here, thereby defeating the memory of them."

Connor's anger seemed to dissipate once he witnessed the blonde woman's face relaxing. It was so easy to tell what she was feeling. _"My heart opens up and I.." _Her heart opened up. Her heart was open for him and anyone who was able to get close to her. _'How does she do this? She had been hurt over and over again, and yet she is still capable of revealing herself to others, to me. Does she ever worry over pain? I don't think I could ever stop worrying. How does she do it?'_

"You're…You're right," says MaryLynn. "I faced my fear after all. I did not panic either."

"No, you did not. And you did not drink of your whiskey either. Do not think that I did not notice these things."

"You notice everything, don't you? Nothing gets by you. And yet you speak very little."

He looks away, trying to ease through his reserved nature as he says, "I…I see many things in people. However, what I see is not always meant to be spoken of."

His words were very calculated, slow. Secretly, MaryLynn could listen to him speak for hours on end. He could be talking nonsense, but the way his deep voice articulated every word, every syllable…the way he _meant_ every word he spoke. Perhaps this is why he spoke so little: he meant _every word that left his lips_. When he would soften his voice, she would feel lulled into a quiet security. He possessed this presence of a guardian who knew when to let one fall, and when to stop one from sinking in one's own suffering. Her gentle blue eyes looked up at him, her eyelids heavy hooded.

"You choose your words carefully. You mean what you say, even if you don't say much."

"English is not my native tongue."

"But you speak it so beautifully. I prefer to listen to you speak rather an Englishman."

"Thank you.." says the Native assassin quietly in a husky voice. He did not know how to receive a compliment sometimes. Actually, he never knew how to receive a compliment. In his mind, he was only doing what he thought was right or appropriate. Shouldn't everyone be that way? Ah, the beauty that is naiveté.

"Commanding in speech, yet you say little. You know… Prayers are spoken quietly, in few words, but they withhold such power when heard. You speak in that manner, Connor."

"That manner," he reiterates, unsure of where she was going with this observation. "What is this manner that I speak in? Like what?"

"Like a prayer."

She lies down upon the pew she sits on, her back adjusting to the hard wood. Leaning her head of golden waves back, she closes her eyes with a soft smile on her rosy lips.

"You sound like a prayer to me sometimes, you know?"

"I-I-I do not know how to respond to that, I am sorry."

"You don't have to respond. It means that I admire your voice."

"It is your voice that is worthy of admiration. Not mine."

"Since when are you so romantic?" she chuckles, not one for flattery and fluff.

"I am not being romantic. I am saying what I think is true."

Sighing deeply, her body in a tranquil state, she recalled how she used to daydream right here as she would lie down on this pew. Her hand would rise up, palm facing her. In her palm would be the projected colors from the stained glass windows. She held the colors of red, blue, yellow, and green in the palm of her hand, a dream she could hold on to forever more. However, once her hand lowered, the colors disappeared, much like security.

"Connor," MaryLynn speaks in a low voice, realizing that this was not the past but the present moment. She felt security _in this moment_, and that was what mattered.

"Yes, MaryLynn," he answers, kneeling down on one knee at her side.

"Why must childhood end so drastically? Why must bad things happen when we grow older?"

He felt like a boy again at the mention of childhood ending so "drastically." His childhood ended when he witnessed his mother burn in the hungry flames. She sent him away, refusing for her little boy to save her from the flaming planks of wood that anchored her broken legs to the earth. His eyes glazed over at the memory, almost feeing that pair of large arms around his waist again, pulling his little body away from the horrid scene. He could not save her. He _tried_….but he could not. And it was all because he, a five-year-old child, could not fight off a wicked man, a man named Charles Lee who choked him until he almost saw the faces of his ancestors come to take him to the Spirit World. Luckily, he was set free, gasping for sweet air. That sort of physical contact terrified him, and he never wanted to relieve that choking for air ever again.

He couldn't do it.

Connor whispers softly, as if speaking as the five-year-old boy who vowed to kill Lee and avenge his mother, a boy who was scared beyond his wits and wishing for sanctuary.

"I do not know.."

His voice was so fragile to MaryLynn's ears. She opens her eyes, and turns her head to face Connor. His face had changed altogether somehow. His features were softened, and his eyes were glazed like a glass menagerie about to shatter. When she said his name again, he snapped out of his daze, the Adult now returning with a hardened gaze.

"Connor, what happened to you…?" questions the blonde woman slowly, seeking answers in his dark eyes.

He hears her clearly, but he does not respond. He feels a need to reciprocate her call, but he does not want to answer in this vulnerable state.

She couldn't stop herself. She knew he didn't like to be touched. However, her heart wept for him and for everything he was not telling her. The Native assassin was beginning to unravel, and a glimpse of what hid inside him was beginning to peek above the surface. Her pale hand reaches over and gently presses her palm against his chest, where his heart would reside.

He flinched only slightly, but relaxed under her touch. The warmth of her hand permeated through his white military shirt and heated his skin. Her touch was healing. Connor did not feel the urge to rip her hand away. His own pain vanished once she touched him so lovingly, knowing very well that he could easily reject her touch and push her hand away.

He did not push her hand away.

Their eyes were locked in a knowing gaze. He could not speak, but a thousand words, both in English and in Mohawk, collided within his head and his heart. He wanted to tell her so much about everything he was unsure of, everything he feared, everything that haunted him in his dreams. However, he couldn't find the words. Or better yet, he couldn't find the _courage_ to speak of his vulnerability.

MaryLynn sat up slowly from the pew, her hand leaving his broad chest. Her eyes crown with tears as she looked at his pained face. Before her kneeled the same fifteen-year-old boy she had met in the alleyway, the scared boy who stumbled over himself and hoped that he would live to see the next day. She knew not of his village burning or his mother's cruel death, but she knew that he had suffered in this lifetime, just as she did.

"_Connor,_" she barely whispered, embracing him around the waist.

He did not embrace her in return. His body froze in place at the unexpected physical contact.

"What won't you tell me?" her heart speaks through her words, tears welling her eyes. "I trust you with my pain. Why won't you trust me? Be free of your pain by speaking of it."

No. No, too much emotion. Damnit, why couldn't he get a better grasp on his emotions? How did this woman transform him from a man into a boy? _Again_? He ground his teeth, his jaw tensing.

"…I cannot."

"Then I'll wait. You are my friend, and I will wait for you."

Finally, a large hand managed to rest upon the side of her head, her soft hair cushioning his palm. His distinguished chin rested atop her scalp, initially hesitant, but easing into the contact.

He touched her.

He touched her back.

It was not much, but from the Native assassin, her dear friend, it meant the world to MaryLynn that he tried to open up to her.

"I feel embarrassed," she whispers into his white coat. "I have said so much of myself, and yet I know very little about your life."

"You do not need to know. I am content to listen to you as long as you feel the need to speak."

"…I want to know you better."

"You will know in time. Give me time. Just give me time."

Basking in the golden glow of the hanging lanterns, Connor and MaryLynn remained in this position for quite some time. When the heaviness of sleep caressed her weary conscious mind, MaryLynn mumbled into his clothes just before she yawned.

"Connor, I want to go home."

"I will take you home," he answers into her hair, his breath hot.

The blonde woman slowly parts from his warmth, an idea of showing her gratitude coming to mind. Her eyes looked away in a reserved manner as she bit into her lower lip. A hand reaches down into her blouse, retrieving the silver crucifix. The beads ride up her soft skin, rubbing against the flesh in a pleasant way. She pulls the rosary up over her head and pauses to look at the treasured jewelry with a loving expression. Kissing the silver crucifix, she holds out her hand to Connor, offering the rosary to him.

"What are you doing?" he is confused by her gesture.

"I…I want you to have this, Connor."

"MaryLynn, I have seen you grasp onto this necklace many times. Why are you giving it to me if it means something to you?"

"Because I don't need it anymore. I used to wear it to feel safe, and have been for many years. Thanks to you, I'm not afraid anymore. You showed me a way to face a fear, even if it was just one."

She further extends her hand with the rosary beads collected into a black ball.

"Please," she implores. "It will bring you luck."

He is reluctant to take the rosary, but finds how lovely the gesture is. Seeking to bring her to a place she once loved had actually given her more than just memories; it gave her strength. This was something he never expected. He never expected such affection from the woman, and he was aware that she could discern his aversion of physical contact. A crooked smile tugs his full lips as he takes the rosary from her small palm, his calloused fingertips grazing her skin. She felt warmth in her belly when his calloused fingertips touched her palm. The sensation was subtle and yet felt so good.

Gently closing his fist around the rosary, the Native assassin looks into MaryLynn's blue eyes, his dark eyes glowing in the lantern light from above. He pulls the rosary over his head. The black beads contrasted beautifully with the crisp white of his military shirt, the silver crucifix dangling down his torso. In a strange way, it seemed to compliment the necklace he wore with three wolf teeth dangling from the leather strap. A symbol of him. A symbol of her. Both around his neck to carry with him wherever he may go.

"Thank you. I will wear this always."

Her smile twitches slightly as she tries to fight back tears. He was utterly beautiful when he was so gentle, so vulnerable like a child whose vision of the world never became tainted with cynicism and negativity. The simple things he had done for her were all she could ever ask for.

'Why must you tempt me to fall for you, you silly man?' thought the blonde woman, rubbing her eyes.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, now you know what inspired this story and the title. :) I've been listening to Madonna since I was a baby, so get used to me citing a song of hers now and then, ha ha. But seriously, I love "Like a Prayer" and the music video is intense.

I cannot begin to thank you all for reading/favorite-ing/following/reviewing this story. I read your words are so enthralling and cannot begin to thank you enough. I'm getting a better handle on getting used to my busy schedule, but will still take time to write and post. **LurkingLady**, I love your reviews, please start a account so I can chat with you, girl! ;D I usually try to PM my reviewers when I find time, and I would love to PM you and answer any questions you may have like I do with the lovely people (_you know who you are_) that review this story.

Connor is very rigid and not ready to open his heart just yet. I know some of you are a little antsy (myself included) and want him to just open up his muscular arms for a hug, but he will need some time to open up. MaryLynn, on the other hand, wears her heart on her sleeve. Let's hope she can coax Connor out of his shell. It will take time, so ML will have to have some patience. ;)

Again, thank you for your continuing support and patience. Have a lovely week.

~take care


	8. Monsters in My Head

_**Chapter 7: Monsters in my Head**_

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madame, and the Maverick brothel. _

_The lyrics provided are from the song "When I Fall in Love," performed by Marilyn Monroe. _

_Italics: _Spoken in native tongue.

**Bold: **Direct lines from the Assassin's Creed 3 game.

Forgive me if there are errors. I stare at a computer screen for hours on end at work, so my eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be. ~

* * *

_June 1774_

Age and Youth sit across from ne another, engaged in what began as a casual game of fanorana. Age would smirk that wry, lazy smirk of his when claiming Youth's tokens. This would only fuel Youth in defeating the old man for once.

"Be patient, Connor," Achilles advises in a rasp. "Your eagerness to move your tokens only promotes my way to victory.

Connor grunts something inaudible in Mohawk under his breath, his eyes darting between to particular tokens on the painted wooden board. The master assassin chuckled with sealed lips, his long brimmed hat casting shadows over his dark eyes. His student had grown into a fine young warrior since he had first encountered the stubborn, thin boy banging on his door for the old man to train him. Four years and thirty pounds of muscle later, Connor was a skilled assassin. He was _still_ stubborn as ever, mind you.

"Speak in your mother tongue all you want, boy. I know a smart-alleck remark when I hear one."

The Native assassin moved one token diagonally, distancing himself from a potential claim. The old man had not expressed any sort of emotion. He was gifted with the experience of portraying a face of stone, a face revealing nothing but a tranquil, unimpressed man. Although he would never question Achilles on such things, Connor wondered what ran through the old man's mind from time to time, having been former master assassin. What did a retired assassin think about? Did he find peace? Was he still haunted? Did he find purpose in life after all was said and done for the Brotherhood?

He silently prayed that he would not die alone.

"How goes business in Boston?" Achilles inquires, recognizing that contemplative, stiff look upon Connor's features.

"Business is the same as it was before. Minor missions to pass the time. There are no naval missions as of yet, but I am still weary."

"Is Johnson still treading low?"

Connor looks away, purposely focusing on the open window to his left hand side. Anything to avoid the old man's omniscient gaze.

"I have not heard anything of importance concerning William Johnson. He has been located from time to time, but there has been no suspicious activity."

Achilles moves his token, attempting to corner Connor's token.

"This must be wearisome, I presume, the man living and all.."

"Achilles, please. There was no need to kill Johnson after the tea extortion. Power was thieved of him, as well as money. His plan to purchase my peoples' land was stunted."

"So you think. Johnson is part of the Templar order. They have their ways in regaining stolen resources. They are not stupid as you may think they are."

Connor furrows his brows further a deep line forming between them as he moves his token to escape Achilles' oncoming token. Achilles was not ignorant. He knew that the young man wanted peace, and di not want to have to kill a man if he deemed it not necessary. However, a man should not be spared just because his plan of greed was stunted, especially if he possessed allies that could set him back on track. Sometimes death was the answer to stop a man completely in his tracks. Alas, Connor was young. He did not understand. The old man understood, but could not help but feel frustrated that his words of advice were not heeded. 'He'll have to learn _the hard way_, unfortunately..'

"Ease yourself, Connor," the old man says. "Heed advice from someone who bears far more experience in these situations than you do."

"I handled the situation as I saw fit. I saw no need to eliminate the man. I saw that his plan was stunted," Connor firmly reiterated his explanation, not faltering in his stance one bit despite Achilles' words.

Achilles sighed in frustration, moving a token that cornered Connor's token, granting him access to claim the young man's token.

"Did you see that coming?" Achilles smirked, alluding to more than just a silly board game.

"No," answered the young man, his eyes narrowed at the scene of the claim on the board.

"My point exactly, boy. Don't doubt a man who knows what he is doing.."

The sound of the front door colliding with the wall had shaken the delicate furniture with fright. The house was old enough, no need to slam doors! Immediately afterward came a booming, deep voice and frantic, heavy footsteps.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton! _Ratonhnhak__é__:ton_!"

Connor's eyebrows rose as his dark eyes shot open. He bolted from his seat at the sound of his bet friend's desperate call and entered the foyer to find Kanen'tó:kon out of breath.

"Kanen'tó:kon, what is wrong?" Connor inquired hastily, his accent thick and apparent when speaking his friend's name.

A wave of feathers and the clacking of beads sounded off with Kanen'tó:kon's every move. He had sprinted through the forest to reach the Homestead. Catching his breath seemed harder than usual, even though he was more athletic than he was in his adolescence.

"_Calm down_," eases the Native assassin in Mohawk.

The discussion transitioned into English for Achilles' sake. The old man made his way to the foyer, his polished black cane in hand. The discussion between the pair of young men was heated.

"It is Johnson! He plans to take our land with all the money in hand. There is a meeting in session right now. You must stop him!"

"_Johnson_? He possesses the money? The tea was destroyed! He has not been active in business! How-"

"I warned you about letting that man go," Achilles raised his voice, irritated and yet not surprised that this would happen once he learned of Johnson's life being spared. "Do not think it is so easy to stop Templar action."

Connor squeezed his eyes shut, his lips snarling at the truth in Achilles' words. He knew that the old man was right. He thought that he was doing the right thing. If the destruction of the tea and the elimination of tax collectors stopped the man's financial income, then killing him would not be necessary. If it was not called for, why thieve a man of his life? His decision to not assassinate Johnson was a mistake, and here it was to spit in his face several months later. '_No, I did not see this coming. How could I not _see_ this coming? I thought…I thought it was best..'_

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, we must leave _now_ before it is too late!" implores Kanen'tó:kon. "The Elders speak with him now, but not for long. I will take you to Johnson Hall."

Nodding quickly, Connor motions with his hand for his friend to lead the way. On the way past the door's threshold, Connor asks in Mohawk, _"How long has this meeting been in session?"_

Achilles assumed that the young men discussed tactics in their native tongue, their voices fading as they sprinted down the stone staircase. The master assassin shakes his head, his hand becoming heavy atop his cane. His student was a fast learner indeed, but how much of his pride and heart would blind him in his mission to eliminate the Templars? To eliminate his own father, the Grand Master? While good intentions were admirable, they could harm the ones you intend to save.

"The curse of the youth," mumbles Achilles as he limps his way back into his office, the fanorana game left unfinished. "He is cursed with a child's heart despite his mind of an assassin. Don't destroy the people you so desperately need to save."

* * *

The trek through the forest was hurried, the verdant beauty a blur to their alert eyes. Racing through the Native assassin's mind was the big question of the day: Did he make a mistake by sparing William Johnson's life? Had anyone been harmed or the mission stunted under his vigilance? He had been so careful, calculating every step of Templar action. Was this one act of mercy more troublesome than Connor thought?

It was in the past now. There was nothing to be done except assassinate the man once and for all.

Stopping at the edge of a cliff, with descending levels of rock below, Connor and Kanen'tó:kon stood behind a large tree. He quickly informed the Native assassin on the meeting 's location across the way and up the opposing cliff.

"_The water is well guarded. Take heed. The meeting should be visible at Johnson Hall once you reach the top. Johnson is one to talk louder than he should."_

Throughout the explanation, Connor began to rub the rosary beneath his military as he allowed the information to sink in. Kanen'tó:kon placed a large hand on his oldest friend's shoulder.

"_Are you alright, Ratonhnhak__é__:ton? Is something wrong with your chest?"_

"_N-no, I'm fine," _Connor murmurs, dismissing the action altogether.

The stout young man nodded, choosing to let this observation go.

"_Be careful," _he says._ "I will wait for your return here."_

Nodding twice, the Native assassin begins to run, jumping from the cliff's edge to reach a nearby tree top. He navigates the tree tops, jumping with ease from branch to branch. As soon as he becomes close enough to the lake, Connor dives head first into the clear blue water below. Remaining low in the water, he quietly swims over to a patch of long grass, careful to peek through the blades and locate the guards without being noticed.

One near the bank.

Two walking around a large rock, alternating positions.

Two more at the cliff's edge up at the top, positioned several feet apart.

And whatever guards Connor could not locate…He would be sure to surprise them well.

Swimming in what would be a blind spot for the first guard, Connor reaches the lake bank, walking on the balls of his feet in a low, predatory stance. Sliding his hidden blade in the side of the guard's throat from behind, Connor covers the man's mouth and muffles his gurgled cries before reaching a moment of eternal silence. Gently bringing the man down to the ground, he progresses to the other two guards stationed near the large rock some odd number if feet away. Doping into the lake once more, he navigates through collections of tall grass before positioning himself behind the large rock. One by one, he sneaks his way to each guard, slitting their throats with a slick sheen of his blade. Three down. Good so far.

Connor begins his ascent up the cliff, the jagged levels of rock taking a toll on his arms and shoulders_. 'I knew I should have added pulling up my body weight in training before. The one time I don't…Now I regret!'_ Nonetheless, he continues, grinding his teeth and keeping his breathing low. He encounters another guard as he reaches a new level.

"'ey, stop there!" calls the guard.

Silly words. In one ear and out the other. Connor lifts himself up from the edge and steadily stomps his way to the guard. The man readies his musket and says,

"Stop, I say, or I'll-_guurrggghhh_."

Blade pierces his chest, just beneath his rib cage. Unfortunately, this alerted a second guard. This routine was becoming rather boring, to say the least. 'I never stop and I never will, so please be quiet..' thinks the Native assassin as he stabs the other guard. Good. No swarms of these pests. Clear to continue.

Finally reaching the top of the cliff, he could hear remnants of Johnson's speech.

"…**There are those who will betray and manipulate you. We either work together or take the land by force**.."

Some guards were positioned nearby. Best to maneuver amongst the shrubs and avoid a bloodbath to protect the Elders. Doing so, Connor crouches, quickly making his way through the shrubs and occasionally behind trees. He tracks Johnson, who stood before a hair circle of seated Elders, listening with stern faces. Analyzing the situation, he deemed it best to assassinate from the air. Therefore, he must reach the back of the building, climb, and dive to Johnson's death from above. He executed the plan with ease, eliminating one more pesky guard, covering his mouth so his cries were unheard. He scaled the building quickly as Johnson's speech came to a close.

**"Have I not always been an advocate?"** Johnson attempted to guilt the Native Elders, his Scottish accent thick and heavy. **"Have I not always sought to protect you from harm?"**

**"If you wish to protect us, then give us arms. Muskets and horses that we might defend ourselves!"** argued the Mohawk Elder, sitting to the far left. He knew very well that guards stood behind his seated form with muskets in hand. The old man was not intimidated, for he spoke with conviction. Let them stand there looking superior…These young men knew nothing about war and peace.

**"War is not the answer,"** reasoned Johnson, his tone soft yet condescending all the same.

The Mohawk Elder stood up from his upon the earth, his stance wide and shoulders squared.

**"We remember Stanwix! We remember you moved the borders! Even today, your men dig up the land- showing no regard for those who live upon it."**

The old man stepped up closer to Johnson, intimidating the Scottish man with his firm voice and unwavering gaze. Hiding his intimidation, Johnson smirked, his bright green eyes breaking eye contact.

**"Your words are honeyed, but false. We are not here to negotiate. Nor to sell. We are here to tell you and yours to leave these lands."**

Once the Mohawk Elder has finished his statement, Johnson looked into the old man's sharp, dark eyes once more as he raised his chin up.

"**So be it. I offered you an olive branch, and you knocked it from my hand."**

Johnson signals with his hand for his men to close in on the Native men with their muskets raised before continuing his words.

"**Perhaps you'll respond better to the sword."**

Another Native man stands up, his eyes alert at the raised muskets pointing in his and his brethren's direction.

"**Are you threatening us?"** he says, his fists tight by his sides.

"…**Yes,"** Johnson answers with a dramatic pause.

Glaring from the rooftop, Connor seethed at Johnson's threats. For a millisecond, the Mohawk Elder spotted Connor, careful not to draw attention to the Native assassin. Before Johnson could continue his command for his men to strike the Elders, Connor leaps with widely spread legs from the roof, his blade erect and ready to feel the slick slice of Johnson's pale flesh.

He came down with a heavy "thud," Connor crouching over a fallen Johnson. The guards are alert more than ever, running to corner the Native assassin. Ready for a fight, Connor leaps up into a standing position, flicking out his tomahawk, a weapon best suited for groups to be killed. The bodies blurred as he dug his tomahawk in one neck, into another chest cavity, and against a drawn sword to block an attack. He became so accustomed to battle that his senses were so immensely sharp that he would later on forget that he participated. The experience left his mind quickly, perhaps to ease his heart. The body had to take over in these moments, not the heart.

The Elders were fighting off the guards as best as they could. Noticing that the Mohawk Elder was in a tight spot, he quickly handed him a knife to defend himself. Back to back, young and old, the warriors fought off the remaining guards, pools of bloodshed and greed sopped up by the once lively earth. When all was done, Connor heaved aloud, sheathing his tomahawk. He walked over to Johnson who was still alive.

**"Ah no...What have you done?" **

"**Ensured an end to your schemes," **Connor firmly speaks, his downward gaze upon the dying man unforgiving. **"You sought to claim these lands for the Templars."**

"**Aye," **sighs Johnson**, "..that we might PROTECT them! Do you think that good ol' King George lies awake at night, hoping that no harm comes to his Native subjects? Or that the people of the city care one whit about them? Oh sure, the colonists are happy to trade when they need food or shelter or a bit of extra padding for their armies. But when the walls of the city constrict- when there's crops that need soil- when there's…when there's no more enemy to fight…We'll see how kind the people are then." **

"**The colonists have no quarrel with the Iroquois," **Connor calmly argued, kneeling on one knee next to Johnson's body.

"**Not yet," **interjects Johnson, coughing blood that stained his pale lips. **"But they will. Tis the way of the world. In time, they'll turn. I…I could have stopped it. I could have saved you all…"**

"**You speak of salvation, but you were killing them."**

"**Aye, because they would not listen," **breathed the dying man, struggling to speak the words. "**And, so it seems, neither will you.."**

With a roll of his eyes and a gaping mouth, William Johnson's head fell to the ground, his final breath a prolonged sigh rising into the thick air. Connor looks down on the man with hardened eyes, his heart tightening at the sight of blood decorating the man's face and hands. How much of this blood stained Connor's own hands and face? The thought sickened him to his stomach. Rising up to his feet slowly, his eyelids become heavy, feeling pity swelling in his chest.

"_**May the Faceless One grant you the peace that claimed to seek," **_**** **he bids in Mohawk.

Before he stood up, Connor captured sight of a piece of parchment poking out of Johnson's coat pocket. Narrowing his eyes, he tugs at the parchment and finds that it is a letter addressed to a man named John Pitcairn. Pitcairn...why did that sound familiar to Connor? Having no time to read the letter and pick his brain for a name, Connor sticks it into the inside his white coat before standing up. Bidding the dead man goodbye and good luck in the after life, the Native assassin was met with the eyes of the Mohawk Elder, who returned the blade.

_"Thank you for your aid, brother. This man spoke of peace when all he sought after was greed."_

_"He will not be a bother any longer. Reach sanctuary before more of his men come."_

_"May the spirits protect you, young one,"_ said the Elder, his expression gratuitous and yet grim over the truth that their lands were sought after. This pursuit would continue, unfortunately.

Connor nodded his respect, bidding good luck in the same fashion. He remained until he saw the Elders break apart and disappear into the forest. Do not let their age fool you. They were far more experienced and able to defend than one presumed. As one aged, however, the need to fight seemed to dissipate. Only when it was deemed necessary that battle was chosen over peace.

The way back down the cliff and across the lake was grueling. The cool water of the lake washed away some of the blood, but the heaviness of Johnson's parting words did not leave him. Shelving the words in his mind, he finally reaches Kanen'tó:kon, who say up erect before lifting himself up to stand.

"_Johnson_..." Connor breathed aloud, pulling down his hood to wipe away water from his forehead, ".._is dead_."

Kanen'tó:kon attempts to help Connor stand up, but the stubborn assassin swats away his hands. The stout young man does not take offense. Connor,

Ratonhnhaké:ton, was always one to help himself.

"_The blood on your clothes tells me so,_" smirks Kanen'tó:kon. "_Are the Elders safe_?"

Connor nods, catching his breath.

"_Wonderful. Well done, and thank you, Ratonhnhaké:ton._"

As Connor stands up straight, the stout man notices the black rosary hanging down Connor's torso, the silver crucifix having captured his eye. His dark eyes bulge out in unmistakable irritation.

"_Why is that around your neck?_"

The Native assassin cocks an eyebrow before looking down to see MaryLynn's rosary out in the open against his soaking clothes.

"_Oh, this was-_"

"_Years away from your people, and you convert to the white man's religion? Ratonhnhake:ton, I feared this would occ-_"

"_Don't you dare question my loyalty to my heritage,_" Connor interrupts with a deep growl. "_Before you interrupted my words with accusations, I was going to say that a friend gave me this necklace as a gesture of her gratitude._"

"Her? _A white woman? And what if she is seducing into the white ways?_"

"_This woman helped me on my mission. Never has she asked for anything of me. Kanen'tó:kon, how long have you known me? And you doubt my judgment?_"

"_I apologize. Can you blame me, though? The Elders have dealt with white missionaries coming to our villages to convert us to another way of spirituality that is not our own, dismissing the fact that we have our own beliefs. They deem us inferior."_

_"Not all of the colonists are forceful in that manner, my friend. I have met colonists who have actually respected me, and treated me as their own."_

_"Do they? But for how long? What happens after all of this?"_

The stout man sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes. He did not wish to initiate an argument with his oldest friend. It hurt to whip accusations in Connor's face, but Kanen'tó:kon worried over losing his friends to the colonists, the people who attempted to coerce his people into their way of life. He had dealt with the unreasonable bunch, while Connor spoke of another type of people. This only confused Kanen'tó:kon further. And a woman? What was this woman motive? Was she kind? Was she deceiving Connor? The stout man found it difficult to express what he felt, so his words often poured out in a harsh manner. He meant well; let that be known.

The rest of the way back to the village was painfully quiet. Both young men walked at distance from each other, tension between them thick enough to slice with a blade. Once the tall wooden fence of the village came into view, Kanen'tó:kon speaks once more, hoping to ease the tension in his voice.

"_The village misses your presence, Ratonhnhaké:ton_."

Connor sighs, feeling guilt swell his heart as he listened.

"_As do I miss its presence…Its smell, its sounds, its feeling,_" he admits, his eyes glazing over slightly. "_I'm sorry for not visiting as often as I should. This mission is nowhere near complete, and I am restless."_

_"But you are just one man. With all due respect, my friend, how are you going to change the colonists' situation? Even more important, how are you going to change our people's situation? I fear that sides will be draw and chaos will follow."_

_"I will do what I can. I will protect whomever I can, no matter their blood. Human beings are human beings."_

Kanen'tó:kon bites the inside of his cheek, his thick brows furrowed. He looks away from Connor and up at the skies as if to pray to the spirits to look after his friend and the judgments he made.

_"Just be wary of who you deem 'friend' and 'enemy.'"_

Connor nods curtly, his lack of contact apparent as well. The heavy conversation had added to the recollection of Johnson's parting words. How did harming people protect them? What sort of thinking was this? To protect the innocent does not involve harming the innocent.

Standing several feet away from the village's entrance, Connor's nostrils widened, smelling fresh elk meat cooking over an open fire.

_"Who is cooking the meat? I smell…elk."_

_"How did you do that?"_ laughs the stout man, relived to have something positive detract from the serious conversation.

Connor smirked at his friend, crossing his arms. He knew he was always hungry after a grueling day. Kanen'tó:kon's laughter eases as he looks to the young man beside him. Connor returns the gaze.

_"Age has made you solemn, my friend. Find what makes you smile,"_ advises the Native assassin.

_"What do you speak of? I have just laughed at your impeccable sense of smell."_

_"I refer to our conversation from just moments ago. Much has happened to dampen your usual cheerful mood."_

_"I suppose so. You find something to make smile as well. It seems age has saddened you as well."_

_"It will leave me once everything is over. Then, we will all be at peace. One day, I promise you."_

Connor bids his goodbye before leaving Kanen'tó:kon to himself. Walking over to the entrance, the tall wooden fence winding into the internal sanctuary of the village, the stout man looks up to the skies once more.

_"What are you telling him?"_ he mumbles to the ancestors, shaking his head.

* * *

Connor returned to the homestead by sundown. Strangely enough, the hunger had wavered, and he no longer wished to eat. He figured that he should have a meal despite his ever-changing hunger.

The stone staircase up to the front door felt as if it were given extra steps to climb. His heavy feet scuffed against the old stone, his shoulders hunched over. Opening the red door, Connor enters the Davenport mansion, his feet continuing to scuff against the floor. Candlelights could be seen alit in Achilles' bedroom. This most likely meant that the master assassin was seated before his rickety desk, writing away in his large leather bound journal.

Connor hoped to walk past his bedroom without the old man addressing him.

"Is Johnson dead?" asked Achilles, not looking up from his scribbling in the journal.

Sighing aloud, the Native assassin grunted a "Yes," and refused to offer any more conversation. The old man knew well enough that his student was still not accustomed to executing assassinations and leaving his heart out of the matter. It was wise not to take the stress of one's profession back home at the end of the day. Still, Achilles left the young man to his thoughts.

Making his way into the kitchen, which was also lit with candlelight, Connor sought after a loaf of bread and hoped that there was some left over stew that Achilles had made earlier. Taking a peak into the black pot, it saw that it was chopped up red potatoes and thick pieces of venison meat. Groaning at the smell, Connor fetched a bowl to scoop up the stew. If the old man was asleep, Connor would have just brought the pot over and ate straight from it! He was much too tired to care. He removed his blood stained white coat, his shoulders popping with the motion, and tossed it aside. His did not bother with his military shirt. His growling stomach protested that it be relieved first.

Easing himself down onto a wooden stool, he settles the hot bowl atop the counter. He leans on his elbows as he fiddles with the spoon to scoop up a hearty portion of potatoes and meat. Halfway finishing with the stew, the Native assassin pulls out the letter he confiscated from Johnson's dead body. Breaking the dried wax seal, he casually unfolds the letter, munching on a potato bit. He nearly choked on his food while skimming through the letter.

John Pitcairn was a Templar instructed to destroy Patriot weapons and supplies so as to disarm them, leaving them defenseless in battle. The colonists would not be able to retain their resistance and, most dreadfully, die in their fight for freedom. Slamming his fist against the counter top, Connor tosses aside the letter in frustration.

This battle was far from over. Where did he even begin to locate John Pitcairn? Or if he even was aware of this order? How much did he know of the Patriots? Connor cursed aloud, banging on the table.

Why was this so hard? Why was this doubt feasting away at his insides more and more each time he eliminated a target? It was a doubt that could not be spoken of or even admitted to until the doubt manifested before his eyes. He felt torn between two worlds. It did not help that his parentage was of both Mohawk and British descent. He understood both groups of people, and wanted to fight for both. It was difficult when both groups quarreled and demanded a one-sided stance. Which was right? Which was wrong? Could he save them?

He pulled out the onyx beaded rosary from his military shirt. MaryLynn. She spoke of all her doubts and frustrations s easily to him. She even seemed relieved once the words left her lips, fading away into the past. If only he could do the same. He longed to tell her of everything that plagued his mind and heart with stress. His doubts. His frustrations. His questioning of his unwavering idealistic views for people to unite. Despite being a ruthless warrior, he was also a man with a bleeding heart. He cared too much.

He sighed aloud, hunched forward in his seat. He hadn't seen the blonde woman in quite some time. With this newfound investigation, he didn't think he would have much time to stop by the Maverick or the Green Dragon Tavern. Furrowing his brows, Connor squeezed the crucifix, wishing he could let her know somehow that he thought about her…he thought about her quite often.

* * *

_July 1774_

"_When I fall in love_

_It will be forever_

_Or I'll never fall in love_

_In a restless world like this is_

_Love is ended before it's begun_

_And too many moonlight kisses_

_Seem to cool in the warmth of the sun_

_When I give my heart_

_It will be completely_

_Or I'll never give my heart._

_And the moment I can feel that,_

_You feel that way too,_

_Is when I fall in love with you._

_And the moment I can feel that _

_You feel that way too,_

_Is when I fall in love_

_With you…"_

With the deep tones of the piano keys came the scanning of blue eyes over the crowd of men. Yes, they were cheering, but she did not care for them very much. She cared for only one face, which was unseen in the crowd. MaryLynn hadn't seen Connor in weeks. No matter how much she knew of his never-ending missions, she still ached for his presence. A secret part of her wished that he would be in the crowd, waiting for her when the music had died down. No. Just a hopeful wish.

She sighed quietly, a melancholy weight lowering her shoulders and dropping her eyelids. She turns around to face the fireplace, away from peering eyes. Surry noticed a change in MaryLynn's mood. His lips downturned heavily, sorry to see his showmate so sad. He was not sure how to question her on her mood without possibly upsetting her in public. He calls her name, gaining her attention. Her eyes were glazed over, looking back at him but not truly seeing him past the dark mist of sorrow.

Surry offers a sympathetic smile, his dark eyes softening at the woman's expression. She bids a partial smile in return, knowing Surry was concerned about her. She nods, silently saying that she will be alright.

Several minutes passed before a man had approached her, holding what seemed to be a bottle tied with a brown leather ribbon.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle?" he says, his voice a gentle rasp.

"Yes?" she responds in a low tone, finding it harder to keep the mask of the vamp on her face.

"Forgive my intrusion, but I am Stephane Chapheau. Connor sent me to give you this gift."

Her eyes widened at the mentioning of Connor's name.

"C-Connor?" she stutters, her voice soft and higher in tone. "What did he send?"

Stephane humbly presents the bottle, which he informs is the best, most expensive whiskey from his tavern.

"He had told me that you like your liquor strong," chuckles the French cook.

MaryLynn laughs aloud, her eyes crinkling. She gladly accepts the bottle, feeling something tickle her fingers. She turns the bottle around to find a feather, similar to the ones that he stuck in his decorative armbands, stuck in leather ribbon. A sign of _him_. She smiled warmly as her heart soared.

"How is he?" MaryLynn eagerly inquires, cradling the whiskey bottle in her palms.

"Eehh," sighs Stephane, rubbing his forehead underneath the white rag tied around his head. "Hard at work on an investigation. I apologize, I cannot say any more on the matter."

"I understand. No need for apologies. How did you know who I was?"

"Connor gave me a decrete description. Basically, you are not difficult to notice, and that is a compliment."

"O-oh my," the blonde woman flushes, her palm flat against her hot cheek.

The pair moved over to a quiet corner just after MaryLynn bid Surry goodbye with a kiss on the cheek and a, "See you tomorrow night, honey." Stephane felt bad that he had to leave his tavern (a trusted employee watched over the place) and meet the woman that Connor fancied in such a messy state. He straightened out his apron and stood up tall, hoping to appear more suitable.

"I'm so sorry! I never introduced myself properly. I'm MaryLynn."

"It is no trouble, MaryLynn, really. I should have introduced myself like a gentleman. I am Stephane Chapeau."

The two had shook hands, Stephane eagerly following his gesture with, "I must say, it is nice to put a face to the name."

"He speaks of me?" she says with a husky voice.

The French cook chuckles, shaking his head.

"Yes indeed, mademoiselle. He is not a talker, but he does say that you are a good friend and ally. His manner changes a bit when you are mentioned, though."

"What do you mean?"

"He is not so _grincheux,_…grumpy."

The blonde woman titters at the adjective.

"He is a restless person," she reasons. "He means well."

"Of course, I am not complaining. He has been in possession of this rosary. It was yours, I understand?"

"Yes," she looks down bashfully, smiling at the memory of embracing Connor's waist in King Chapel's in the golden light of the candles. "He had done something lovely for me, and I wanted to give him my most prized possession to thank him."

"He should thanking you," says the French cook, his smile subtle. "He changes when you are mentioned., as I said before. Whatever it is you do, mademoiselle, keep doing it. It seems to calm Connor down."

"Oh dear, I wish I knew what it was. I just value my time with him very much."

Stephane smiled warmly at the blonde woman's dreamy expression of heavy hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. Aahh…he was once the same way with his wife before she and their child were killed. Time was cruel, but he knew that one day he would reunite with both his love and his child. Clearing his throat before the horrid memories could resurface, Stephane began to say goodbye.

"I hope you enjoy the whiskey, MaryLynn. It is the best I have for sale! Connor must truly be fond of you."

MaryLynn was not sure how to verbalize her emotions. Connor was not one to express himself, but hear these words from someone who worked alongside him…

Butterflies. Butterflies in her stomach. That was all her mind could register of the matter.

"Have a lovely night, Stephane, and thank you."

"You too, MaryLynn. _Au revoir_."

Watching the French cook leave the tavern, MaryLynn stroked the long neck of the whiskey bottle. Looking down at the gift, she fingered the feather stuck in the leather ribbon. Pulling it out gingerly, she holds the feather before, studying its fibres in the light. She kisses the feather lovingly, sticking it back in the leather ribbon. All the way back to the brothel, she held the whiskey bottle close to her bosom.

"Come back soon, Connor," she whispers, her sadness whisked away ever so slightly.

* * *

****:** According to the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) perspective on life and death the FaceLess One is known as the "destroyer who brings death. It is the Faceless One who takes away a dying person's final breath. The Life Force, or soul, leaves the body and embarks on a Sky Journey. The goal of the Sky Journey to reach the source of creation, the Sky World. However, not every Life Force is ready to accept that their physical body is dead, so the Life Force may linger for a few days. Ceremonial practices are held to guide the Life Force onto their Sky Journey and leave their physical bodies behind. Please note that not all Native American tribes withhold the same exact beliefs on life and death. Each tribe is different in their own way. This is actually very similar to the Ancient Egyptian perspective on death, in which a deceased person's soul must journey in the afterlife in order to reach a dimension of complete bliss and eternity (judgment on the person's life plays a huge part in this). For more information on how the Iroquois/Haudenosaunee viewed life and death, please refer to _Dianne M. Longboat_'s article, **Indigenous Perspective on Life and Death**. She also provides modern Iroquois/Haudenosaunee beliefs on life and death.

So, basically Connor was bidding William Johnson good luck on his journey back to the Sky World when he said in the game, "May the Faceless One grant you.."

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hello everyone. Thank you so much for patience. As I've said, work takes up my time. I am overjoyed to hear that you are enjoying this story. I appreciate it greatly, even if my updates are rather slower. The next chapter will take time as I'm debating on adding a visit or two from Connor before he participates in the Battle of Lexington & Concord and the Battle of Bunker Hill. I want to portray the war scene as best as I can.

Off I go. Hope you enjoyed this Connor-centered chapter. I want to show his doubts and frustrations, which I felt were not exploited enough in the game. I want you to feel like you can understand Connor and where he is coming from. MaryLynn will take the spotlight back, no worries, ha ha! ;D However, I want them both to have their own spotlights from time to time.

Thank you again, and bless you.

~take care


	9. Cruel, Cruel World Pt1

**_Chapter 8: Cruel Cruel World, Part 1_**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madame, the Maverick brothel, and Jeanette. _

_Italics: _Memories and native tongue.

**Bold: **Lines from the Assassin's Creed 3 game_.  
_

* * *

_"It's been a battle for too long  
And all my happiness has gone  
Kindness erases a city of strangers  
Deep down in my bones  
All I wanna do is crawl back home to you__  
_  
Cause nobody gets me  
Nobody gets me  
Nobody gets me  
Like you  
Everyone left me  
Everyone left me  
Everyone left me but you  
And you're the only one  
The only one, the only who gets through  


_And when my hope is gone  
I'm feeling numb,  
The only one I let though is you, you  
You get me through, you  
You can get me through this cruel cruel world  
This cruel cruel world"  
_

_- "Cruel Cruel World" _by **Darren Hayes**_  
_

* * *

_April 1775_

"M-miss, I must explain-"

"Don't you worry, honey. I have handled young men such as yourself before."

The final session of the night had involved a young Patriot who had been pressured by his rowdy comrades to spend a night with an experienced woman before pursuing upcoming training against the British. The poor thing was so frantic, he was visibly shivering and his eyes darted everywhere but MaryLynn's heavy-hooded, sultry gaze. She tried to pacify the young man with a caress of his cheek, progressing to combing his brown hair with her fingers.

"B-but, you don't understand!" the young Patriot persisted as the blonde woman's body pressed him gently against the wall.

She cooed for him to relax as she lightly ran her lips over his neck, her eyelashes tickling the skin. Strange, no Adam's apple.

The young man stiffened immensely in stance, unsure of how to register the sensation of MaryLynn's fingertips lining his collarbone.

"So nervous," she sang in a breath, her fingers trailing from his collarbone and down his torso.

Before she could reach his crotch, the young man yelped in a higher tone of voice.

"I'm a _woman_!"

Marylyn ceased her actions in cold blood. Stepping away from him-erm..._**her**_...the woman folded her hands before her ivory dress.

"A _woman_? Well, no wonder I felt no erection from you," she said candidly. "Miss, I have nothing against your wishes, and I'm sure there is a way to make love to a woman, but-"

"No, no! I am not here out of free will!"

"Oh!" tittered MaryLynn. "Well, this is odd."

"I-I-I'm terribly sorry, the other men thought I should be here before training, they don't know that I'm a woman, so I couldn't say no, they would kick me out, oh Lord what if they don't believe me-"

"Easy, there!" shouted MaryLynn, holding up her hands, her palms facing the young lady. "Please, just take a deep breath. All is well, I am not upset and you are not in trouble."

Funny. She was once the panicking woman who had to be pacified with shouts. The tables have turned. Thank you, dear Irony.

The young lady did as she was told, taking in a shaking deep breath for three seconds. She exhaled aloud in four seconds, her shoulders hunching from their once tight hold. She lowered her head, removing her navy blue tricorn hat.

"Alright…I am ok now…" she poke slowly, gathering her words and speaking coherently to the best of her ability despite her nerves. "My fellow Patriots thought it would be 'appropriate' if I spent the night with an experienced woman before heading off for duty for the first time. If I had insisted on declining, they would surely find out that I was not who I said I was."

With all due respect, MaryLynn had just thought that the young lady was a small boned lad who was much too nervous to have an erection. However, the lack of an Adam's Apple had given her a hint. Smiling sympathetically, the blonde placed her hand on the young lady's shoulder.

"You need not worry," she said. "I'm sure women love each other, but I don't think this fits the current situation."

She laughed lightly, which seemed to make the young lady smile in return. Her nervous tension was further alleviated. By this time, MaryLynn had offered a seat on her bed while she turned around her desk chair, facing the young lady as she sat down.

"Now, tell me, why did you enlist?" MaryLynn calmly asks, adjusting her ivory dress so her bare shoulders were covered.

"Well, miss, my brother ill. My mother can only do so much. So, I took it upon myself to fight for freedom. Neither of them was pleased, and Mother had forbidden me to enlist. I ended up running away, changing my name and appearance, and was accepted into the Patriot movement. My family is probably upset, but I cannot…will not…just stand by and hope this tyranny dies."

MaryLynn smiled with bittersweet undertones in her blue eyes. This young lady was willing to fight in order to protect her brother and her father. She chose to act instead of sit idly by. She watched as the young lady adjusted her low ponytail, tightening the leather ribbon. Her dark eyes lingered upon her calloused fingers. The poor thing knew that she could die if fate had scribed such a thing.

"You are very brave. It will be ruthless out there. Please, be careful. Conceal your gender as best as you can. I cannot imagine the consequences."

"Don't worry over me, miss," smiled the young lady, her humble gaze now meeting the blonde woman's. "You're awfully nice for a brothel woman. Oh my, I-I-I meant that with all due respect! It's just s-s-some women are pushy in the tavern sometimes. This one woman insisted on touching me, while I waited for my session, when I clearly declined."

"Does she have dark, dark hair? Green eyes?"

"Yes!"

"Ah. She is desperate for business. Do not take it personally, honey."

"If you say so. I do apologize if I sounded rude."

"It's alright! I don't take offense, really. I understand what you speak of. Goodness, you worry to much.."

"Sorry, miss. Just nervous, I guess. War is coming, and not knowing when it is our time to fight makes me—well, _all_ of us walking on eggshells, so to speak. It is scary. Umm…how long is it alright for me to stay here?"

As long as you'd like. It's nice to talk to a woman outside of the business for once."

"The guys will pester me about this. What if they don't believe me?"

"We can fool them. Are you a virgin or are you not?"

The young lady flushed furiously, ringing her hands.

"Oh, I don't mean to embarrass you. It's perfectly fine. I am just gathering information. By the way, what is your name?"

"Thomas."

MaryLynn giggled.

"Your _real_ name."

"Oh. Force of habit. It is Jeanette."

"Jeanette," the blonde woman reiterated. "I'm MaryLynn. So, for a young man who is a virgin, it would usually take time for him to become erect and remain that way due to nervous jitters. The actual sex would last about a few minutes, with him climaxing prematurely. It would be embarrassing for the young man, but, from what I have experienced, it is really their nervousness that hinders their willingness to have sex."

"That doesn't sound fun."

"Ha, ha! Well, for his first time, it can be that way. So, I think another fifteen minutes should do you some good. Are the other men here at the Maverick as well?"

"Yes. We are to meet at the Green Dragon afterword."

"I see. Let me get a pocket watch to keep track of time."

After retrieving the scratched up, copper pocket watch from her nightstand, MaryLynn and Jeanette chatted about the Patriots coming together as an army against British control. It would not be an easy movement, for most of the men enlisted were inexperienced, not to mention the artillery was not as advanced and polished as the sort that was in British possession. However, the undying cry for freedom was much too loud to just sit idly and bear the injustice dealt to the men, women, and children of the colonies. These men were eager to train and sacrifice themselves for a greater cause. This inevitable revolution would be a battle of passion versus glory. To hear such things made the blonde woman's stomach churn. A revolution was called for, but the thought of the casualties and the unknown outcome would leave thousands of people awake at night. One will just have to wait and see…and pray.

When the last five minutes of their "session" had come, MaryLynn had Jeanette stand up from the bed. She began fiddling with the collar of the young lady's military shirt.

"MaryLynn, what are you?!"

"You have to _look _the part if you wish to fool your men," she explained as she untucked her military shirt. "It will make your story more believable if you have visuals to accompany it."

After rumpling Jeanette's navy blue vest, MaryLynn stood back to observe her work thus far.

"A-ha," murmured the whimsical woman as another idea came to mind.

She rushed to her vanity desk to collect some crushed, dried berries from a silver jar that she would use for rouge and staining her lips a rosy color. It was not common for colonial women to pamper their face in such ways. However, when in the brothel, anything that can enhance one's appearance would bring in much more business. Besides, it felt nice to have a slight flush without actually pinching her cheeks.

Returning to Jeanette, the blonde woman dotted with her fingertips some of the crushed berries before rubbed her cheeks in circles to spread the color evenly.

"Men and women are flushed after sex, just like any other physical activity. This will feign an after-glow. Don't worry about what that phrase means, just trust me."

"I-if you say so.." murmured the young lady, feeling rather silly for having dried berries on her cheeks.

With a little crushed berry left over on her fingertips, MaryLynn spread the rest onto her lips. She licked her lips slightly to matte down the powder.

"One last touch," she announced. "May I have access to your collar?"

"Erm, I..suppose so?"

Gently, the blonde woman took old of the right collar of the military shirt, placing two kisses on the material.

"A kiss or two on the collar always rats out an unfaithful man…or a lucky man, whichever," tittered MaryLynn as she winked. "Now, just tug a few strands of hair out of your ribbon, and you are now a disheveled young soldier after a night with a lady."

Jeanette did as she was instructed. A triumphant grin spread across MaryLynn's rosy lips, her eyes crinkling with glee towards her work of illusion. After speaking with this lovely woman who did not berate her for her disguise or wasting he time, the young lady learned to trust MaryLynn. Bashfully, Jeanette rubbed her arm for comfort as she expressed her gratitude.

"I can't begin to than you; not just for understanding, but for helping me too."

"No need to thank me. Just fight hard, Jeanette. Or Thomas, whichever."

For the first time that night, Jeanette had smiled with amusement.

"Why did you choose the name Thomas, if I may ask?"

"It was my father's name. He was an honorable man back in the day, before he died."

"You will make him proud," said MaryLynn, her heartbreaking over Jeanette's eyes glazing over with sadness. "God bless you for your bravery."

MaryLynn had escorted the young lady to the door, opening it for her.

"I can try and speak with Madame about getting your money back."

"Oh, no need! Really, keep it. Besides, it was not I who paid for the night."

The pair of women laughed. MaryLynn was sad to see Jeanette leave as she walked down the hallway. She lingered at the doorway even after Jeanette disappeared down the staircase. Her heart swelled at the thought of Jeanette in battle. 'Please Lord, let it not be her that dies.' Stepping away from the doorway, she closed the door shut.

Slowly, she strolled over to her nightstand where she kept her most prized possessions. Opening the small drawer, she retrieved a thick, leather band bracelet. It was dark brown with white beaded diamond shapes woven into the material. Her smile warmed the moment she wrapped the bracelet around her tiny wrist, letting the string cords hang in the air. Connor had given this gift to her the last time he had come to visit a couple of months ago. His investigation had come to another pause, so he had stopped by for a visit and a little gift. MaryLynn's lashes fluttered shut as she relived the memory in her mind.

_Bidding another client godobye (a rather demanding one), MaryLynn shut the door, happy to see the slob leave her bedroom. She remained stationed at the door when a sound had gone off in the background. Her back was to the window. Did someone break in? Her breath shortening, MaryLynn swiftly lifted her foot and slid off her slipper to project it fiercely at the intruder. _

_A muscular forearm had blocked the slipper easily, his hooded head ducking behind his arm. Connor was found climbing through the now open window, lifting his weight into the bedroom. _

"_You're quicker in your throwing since you last attacked me with a shoe," said Connor with a partial smile. _

"_You scared me! How did you get in? I had locked the window a while ago."_

"_It is my specialty to maneuver about undetected," he explained, removing his white hood. "And I've been picking locks since I was child."_

_The sound of Connor using contractions in his English speaking was still strange to the blonde woman's ears. He had become more and more fluent in English. However, his tone of speech remained formal. _

"_That does not surprise me somehow. I'm so happy to see you.."_

_MaryLynn rushed to the Native assassin and embraced his waist. Connor was still hesitant over physical contact, but had managed to show some progress by placing a hand on her upper back for a moment or two. He had only progressed with MaryLynn, it seemed. She took no offense. To feel his warmth against her body was a lovely feeling, and a hand on her back communicated effort on his part. _

"_I haven't seen much of you," she admitted shyly, her voice barely there as she pulled away. "What is new with you?"_

_Connor sighed deeply as he explained the lack of progress in his investigation. He was able to keep track of John Pitcairn's activity, but has been lying low as of now. He knew that he was being stalked. Connor had been checking in with Sam Adams, not yet trusting the Sons of Liberty however. Sam was the only one who had proven his trust. The poor man could only provide so much inside information. Connor respected Sam for his undying efforts to work with both him and his men in these hard times. _

"_The Patriots are training hard. They are not experienced with war, but they are eager to learn. I only hope that they will be ready."_

"_They're so nervous, the poor things! I'm sure they are working very hard. I try to talk to them if one of them has a session. Their blue vests are hard to miss. It seems to alleviate them when someone is there to listen."_

"_You can have conversations during your sessions?"_

"_It's my session, is it not?"_

_She did have a point. Connor nodded at her counter question, satisfied. Removing his coat and weaponry, he said, "You are kind to speak to them. They are brave, but very intimidated nonetheless."_

_MaryLynn smiled humbly, sitting down upon her bed. _

"_They are going off to war for our rights. It is the least I can do. I'm frightened for them."_

_Once Connor had placed his belongings onto a nearby chair, he sat down beside her on the bed. _

"_They know what they agreed to partake in. There is no room for pity."_

_She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with her long fingernails. His words were firm, but there was a hint of concern. How was he able to retain such a level head in these heavy situations? Perhaps that was why he was an assassin, why he lasted this long in the movement for freedom. _

_Connor felt guilty for worrying MaryLynn. He wanted his visits with her to be enjoyable, not stressful. She seemed quiet, staring down at her nails. His eyebrows furrowed, hoping to think of something to lighten their time together. There was a leather band bracelet that he had made for her, tucked safely away in the breast pocket of his dusty white coat. It was woven with white beads in diamond patterns, in the Iroquois fashion. She did not possess a trinket or something rather to wear for comfort any longer. It was her decision to give Connor her crucifix. And yet, he still felt guilt. What could he do to possibly replace the crucifix necklace?_

_Some time ago, sleep would not grant him peace on a chilly night at the Davenport Homestead, which lead him to crafting a bracelet at two-thirty in the morning. There were some extra slabs of leather in the basement, where he would mostly train and craft pelts of different animals. Off to the dark basement, a candle or two lit, Connor went to work on slicing a rectangular piece of leather, weaving cord string through the vertical opening to either loosen or tighten the bracelet. The beadwork was next, which was a painstaking task for Connor! He had not crafted beadwork in the longest time, and he was a little rusty in his weaving skills. _

_When he was a child, he was shown how to work with beads of red, white, black, blue and yellow, all colors of nature and humankind alike. Clan Mother had taught him the craft when she was not counseling with troubled people or the Mohawk chiefs. After losing his mother at such a tender age, the old woman found it best that the little boy keep himself busy with something as mechanical and attention focusing as beadwork. Each piece of beadwork was special in his tribe, for they were an extension of the person wearing the piece. Once Connor/Ratonhnhaké:ton had grown older, hunting became his passion, and he had abandoned beadwork. Now, as an adult, he found that it was a slow process to perfect the weaving. However, the end result was worth it, despite the crooked lines and imperfect patterns. It was worth seeing that smile on this lovely woman's face._

_As Connor now stood up and quickened his pace to reach his coat, MaryLynn cocked an eyebrow at his peculiar behavior. _

"_What are doing, Connor?" a soft inquiry left her lips as she observed Connor fumble with the breast pocket of his coat. _

_Long copper fingers had pulled out the dark brown leather bracelet, the white beads glistening in the candlelight. Her eyes widened at the bracelet, finding it beautiful in its craft. It had reminded the blonde woman of the armbands that Connor would wear over his white coat. Connor looked down at the bracelet in his large hand, thinking it could have been crafted better and not have been so sloppy, in his opinion. He looked at up MaryLynn, her eyes warm as she gazed at the bracelet. A twitch of his lips had alluded to his nervousness. Firming his grip on the bracelet, he walked back to her and sat beside her on the bed. It took a few moments for him to collect his words, his eyes avoiding her own. _

"_I, uh," he began, running his calloused fingertips over the white beads. "I made this for you. You no longer have something to wear for comfort, so I wanted to give you a replaceme-"_

_She embraced him around his neck before he could finish his sentence. He remained painfully still, his dark eyes wide and his mouth dry. _

"_..replacement, if you like it," he slowly finished his sentence. _

"You_ made it for me. Of course I like it." _

_MaryLynn realized that he had felt uncomfortable with another embrace in one night. Connor's body was stiffening, and she could feel his heart pound against her skin. She alleviated his tension by letting go of him, sitting back. He presented the bracelet to her, his palm open with fingers slightly curling over the leather. She held out her right wrist and took the bracelet with her left hand. MaryLynn slid her wrist through the bracelet, the opening widening to give way. Turning over her wrist, she attempts to tie the cord string to no avail. Her attempts were clumsy, her nose crinkling with frustration. A partial smile tugged the Native assassin's lips as he took over, brushing away her hand as he tied the string for her. He did not tie the string too tightly so as not to cut off her circulation. The natural colors of the bracelet, dark brown and soft white, had complimented her fair skin so lovingly. _

"_It's beautiful," whispers the blonde woman, rubbing the leather and beads to bask in the sensation. "Thank you."_

"_You are welcome," he says humbly, looking away. _

"_I will always wear this," MaryLynn continues, gaining Connor's gaze, "and I will think of you each time."_

"_It is not my best work. I could have done better."_

"_Don't reject my affection," says MaryLynn, her words bold but not brutal in tone. "I love this the way it is."_

_How much she burned, yearned to say to him that she loved him the way _he_ was, no matter the flaws. Like the crooked diamond patterns of the bracelet, he was perfectly flawed. _

That visit was two months ago. He never stopped working on the investigation over John Pitcairn and his plan to eliminate Patriot supplies, striking them when no defense was planned to push back the British army. Connor had behaved similarly with William Johnson as well. Obsessive. Stressed. Distant. He would lighten his mood when he would visit her. However, it was that morbid, stern face that she would see before he even spoke a word to her.

Occasionally, a messenger would come by the Green Dragon with a small gift to give to her, a feather tied to it. It was Connor's idea of a signature. He was not much of a talker, but he could certainly show how he felt better than verbally expressing it. A young man named Clipper (one of Connor's recruits as she understood him to be) was the first to drop off a necklace with rows of white and black beads. _"He says that he is getting better at his beadwork, Miss MaryLynn. He hopes you like this gift." "Please tell him that anything he makes is beautiful to me. He does not have to give me anything!" "Oh, he insists! Believe me when I say that he seems gentler when he asks either Stephane or I to drop off a trinket of his...forgive me, I might use the wrong words...a trinket of his people's fashion to you." "Why, is he strict with you and Stephane?" "Well…don't tell him, Miss, but he is _tough_. Reasonable, but _tough_." "Ha ha. That does not surprise me."_

The second time had been Stephane again, bearing a leather pouch with a circular beadwork woven into the center in colors of white, blue, red, black, and yellow. As always, another feather was attached as a signature. _"I have been telling the boy to just propose to you! It is always a pleasure seeing you, mademoiselle, but he is the one with the affection. he should be giving you these gifts." "Does he really? I'm not labeling you a liar at all, but it is hard for me to think of him loving me. He is so reserved and private." "Give him time, MaryLynn. It is not hard to see why he does care for you. You are patient, I can tell. And patience is what is needed to deal with someone like Connor." _

The feathers from each gift were collected into a bundle, bound together with a red stain ribbon. The blonde woman would place them safely in the drawer of her nightstand where she would keep the bracelet, necklace, and pouch Connor had made. Underneath the items, fraying at the edges with age was the parchment poster of a young Connor from 1770, alerting the people of Boston of his bravery. MaryLynn never forgot that mop of dark hair covering his eyes, how unruly it was when loose. Sure, the poster was printed with propaganda to help him escape incognito without trouble, but it was still a memento of when she first met that nervous boy in the alleyway.

Lately, MaryLynn had been looking at the poster as memories danced before her heavy hooded eyes. She tried as best as she could to forget the recollection of Charles Lee attempting to rape her and the humiliating walk home to the brothel. However, Connor's shy smile would sweep in her mind, reminding her of what came out of their first meeting: his return years later to be a close friend to her and someone who accepted her fully.

She thought of him often…_too often_ for her liking. 'Come back in one piece. I don't know what I'm feeling, but you best be alive when I figure out these emotions for you.'

* * *

_April 19, 1775_

The night was long. If it had not been for the Sons of Liberty, Connor would have strangled Paul Revere for his incessant orders as he rode behind him on a horse_. "__**This**__ way, Connor!" "Go __**that**__ way, Connor!" "__**No**__, Connor, not __**that**__ way!" "Where are you going?" "Wait for me!" "Why are you walking away from me?" _

As long as people were alerted of oncoming British attack, all was well. He could deal with Revere's neuroticism. Pitcairn would not get away with sneaky, underhanded tactics to eliminate the Patriots and unsuspecting colonists.

Now, on this foggy morning, all was deathly silent in the town of Lexington. All that was left to do was wait; the dreadful wait for the first fire to be shot. Connor never felt so anxious and sick waiting for a battle to begin. He knew it would not be clean. He was used to slaughtering red coats, but an actual battle with dozens of men fighting alongside him? This was rather new, as much as he did not wish to admit it.

* * *

Hearts were racing as men stood their position, awaiting their fate. They all prayed for the fire to be shot so that the battle could just end, along with the prolonged torture of fear and the unknown. An older man by the name of John Parker limped as he paced back and forth. It was his duty to not only command these men, but to motivate them. His eyes were dark and narrow, squinting vigorously as he gazed upon each face before him.

"**Stand your ground, men! Don't fire unless fired upon! But if they men to have a war, let it begin here!"**

Connor enters the scene, his anxiety melting away as he walked with broad strides. His presence was commanding and firm as he made his way to John Parker, the man leading the Patriot soldiers in battle at Lexington. Connor stopped in cold blood as his eyes shot open at the sight of John Pitcairn across the way, ready with his men.

"**Pitcairn!"**

So the portrait comes to life. Strange how one can memorize a face by staring at a painting. And yet, when the face comes to life, it is almost like sorcery. The villain _does_ exist.

Pitcairn rides up before his men. In a thick Scottish accent, he shouts, **"Disperse, you damned rebels! Lay down your arms and disperse!"**

Here comes the initiating fire of arms from the Regulars, their muskets more advanced and polished than that of the Patriots. Patriot soldiers freeze for a just a moment in utter horror before retreating the scene. Some men remain in their stances, bearing the first shootings in the battle as they brace themselves behind bouders and trees.

"**What the deuce are you doing?! Hold your positions!" **John Parker screams in a raspy voice as men abandon their promise to fight.

To avoid the deadly kisses of the silver bullets, Connor pulls the old man away as he continues to curse the cowardly soldiers to Hades.

"**Cravens! Traitors!"**

Connor pulls them both to safety behind a large boulder, crouching. He speaks of the unfortunate facts to John Parker. There was no time to be angry and judge those who could not take the pressure of battle.

"**They are not coming back. You will have to make do with those who remain."**

The older man is disgruntled by the calm words, huffing aloud. He was a man of experience, why was this…this _boy_ going around telling him how to act?

"**Don't you lecture me on how-" **

He stops speaking to look around. All is silent. The Regulars have stopped firing for a split second.

"**Return fire! Return fire!" **

The remaining Patriots fire their muskets as told, sucking in what could be their final breaths.

"**You need to get to Concord and warn the others. Show this to whoever leads there. Should be a man by the name of James Barrett."**

He quickly hands Connor a letter from his breast pocket. The older man was already breathless, but fought tooth and nail to remain stationed with his musket. Connor took the letter, a look of alarm on his face at the thought of leaving this man behind.

"**Go on now!"**

He had to trust that they would be alright. He had trust that they could survive. What else could he do when he didn't even believe his own idealistic thoughts?

Dashing down the dusty pathway, Connor pushed through retreating Patriots, locating an unoccupied horse. Yes, this would be the quickest way! He had to get to Concord and warn the militia before it was too late. His heart was racing, the beats reverberating in his ears. He could feel the heat in his face and neck as he rode the horse down the pathway, winding around corners. The amount of men that had retreated was unbelievable. He could not blame them for running, but simultaneously he was disappointed in their lack of courage, their lack of belief in what they had sworn to fight for. No matter. No time for judgments.

People were screaming. Men were calling to one another to remain together to reach Concord. It was chaos. Amongst it all, Connor retained a hard focus on his path to reach this James Barrett. All sound was blocked out. It was as if he were deaf to the screams around him. All that his brain could register was the end goal, the letter safely tucked in his breast pocket. Obstacles in the form of people running amuck had evoked a growl from his lips. His knuckles were white with fury as his grip tightened. '_Must…reach…there…'_

Finally, up in the distance, there stood a couple of men in long coats with two Patriots soldiers. One in red. One in brown. He had recognized the man in the brown coat from last night's meeting of the Sons of Liberty that he had interrupted alongside Paul Revere. Pulling on the reigns to cease the ride, a wild whiney leaving the horse, he had leapt off the saddle and rushed his way over to the gentlemen. Interrupting their conversation, he had warned them with broken breaths.

"**Blood has been spilled in Lexington…and there's more to come. The Regulars are on the march."**

The man in red, who he assumed to be James Barrett, had slowly made his way over to Connor is calculating strides. His smirk was condescending as he gazed upon Connor, thinking him a Native boy with no clue as to perform in war.

"**You don't say? Why do you think I've men up here?"**

Connor did not take too lightly to James' sarcasm and arrogant smirk. He basically implied that Connor was foolishly ignorant. He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a snarky remark to the older man. He didn't have time for this clash of the egos!

"**Go home, 'fore you get yourself killed. I've enough to worry about without some green boy looking to play at hero." **

"**I can vouch for him,"** the man in the brown coat spoke up.

He had been more than familiar with Connor's successes in protecting the Sons of Liberty. This was not some mere boy who wanted to play; he was a man who knew how to strategize and remain calm in the midst of battle.

"**John Parker as well,"** said Connor, whipping out the letter for James to see.

There was a slight smirk on his lips, having something over James after his little talk-down. James took the letter and read as he walked away. While he was busy, the man in brown had stepped up to Connor to engage in a hushed conversation.

"**Where's Revere?" **whispered Connor in a haste.

"**Captured."**

"**_What?_"**

"**Fear not. That man's no stranger to sticky situations. He'll be fie, I'm sure of it." **

Connor's throat tightened. Yes, the short, stout man had irked him to no end the previous night, but he was still helpful. Spirits help him escape his current situation. Pray that he lives.

James cleared his throat for their attention, having finished with John's letter.

"**You ladies finished gossiping? Parker seems to believe that you're not completely useless. So I suppose there's a thing or two you might be able to help with.."**

The man in brown tried to conceal his grin. It was amusing to watch the men stare each other down, ready to tear each other's throats out.

"**When the fighting starts, we'll need to hold those positions there. They're critical to the defense of Concord."**

James points to three spots, one before bridge, one to the far left and one to the far right. He sighs deeply, his lips thinning out as he sealed them.

"**Good boys, not used to soldiering. They need someone with experience to direct 'em. That something you can do?"**

Connor nods, appreciating the hint of respect he was slowly gaining from the older man.

"**You best be telling the truth,"** James warned. He would not be warming up anytime soon.

"**You have my word,"** Connor swore, looking James square in the eye without hesitance.

"**Then I suppose all that's left to do is wait.."**

No sooner than later did Regulars by the dozens come marching in. A group of them came approaching the bridge. One Patriot's eyes widened as he turned around to warn James.

"**Sir!"**

"**MAN THE BARRICADES! No,"** he stops Connor by the wrist as he starts to ride away on the horse.** "Ensure my men hold those positions! If the Red Devils break through, we're finished!"**

Finally, a chink was found in James' emotional armor.

"**What would you have me do?"**

"**Listen carefully. The Redcoats will form firing lines. Order the men to shoot just before the line is ready. Too soon and they'll miss their targets. Too late and the enemy will open the fire first."**

"**Understood." **

"**And if any of those bastards make it through, engage them. You must keep my men alive!" **

And so the first battle begins. It begins under his command, and no one else's. His heart had long forgotten how to pulse, his blood running cold. Cursing to himself, Connor forced himself to go in and fight. What happens, happens. There was no looking back now.

The first lines came in the direction of the bridge, where the center Patriot firing lines were stationed. Oh, how desperate Connor was to fire and be done with his nerves! However, it was not beneficial or militant. Raising his hands high in the air, he called out to the Patriots, **"Wait for my signal!"**

The men did as they were told, though their arms were visibly tense as they aimed their muskets. Once the first firing line of Regulars came close enough to the bridge, Connor commanded for the men to shoot, his arm slicing the thick air as he lowered it.

"**Fire now!"**

The first firing line went down like rag dolls. Perhaps the least skilled Regulars were sent out first, for the battle only became more difficult. There were Patriot casualties, but the number was not alarming. This was more than a miracle, for there were less than a hundred men on the side of the colonists; easily outnumbered by the amount of Regulars marching in with muskets.

"**Now!"** Connor would call out, rushing amongst three of the positions of Patriot soldiers.

They came in by the dozen, never-ending in their march. The Native assassin refused to stand down. He had to continue his command even if men were falling to the ground. There was no way they would tear his men down, tear him down.

'_Not today. Not today! Not on my watch! Do not fail. Get here. Get over there! Quick! Damn this horse, go faster!'_ His thoughts were just as concise and sharp as the silver bullets piercing the air.

Noise.

All he heard was noise.

Gun shots.

Screams.

Bodies hitting the ground.

Red.

All he saw was red.

Red coats.

Red blood spilling.

Red..

Red..

_**Red.**_

'_Let it all __**stop**__,'_ he silently prayed, pushing to reach the left position to command open fire. The Regulars were getting close now, even if the numbers were dying down.

He could have sworn that he had an outer-body experience amongst the battle. He could somehow recall standing away from the intense scene, watching himself command Patriot soldiers. He could see the look on his own face. Teeth bared. Lips thinning. Jaw tense. Eyes…his eyes were aflame, dark as the deep earth. He was a man desperate for victory and death all at once. He could hear the words he spoke, but did not feel his lips move as he watched himself scream in the air for fire. However, it was not his voice. It was the voice of Ziio, his mother.

"_Ratonhnhaké:ton...This __**anger**__ in you. What have you become? It is frightening."_

Connor returned to his body fully conscious. What he had just experienced was nothing like he had ever experienced before. Was this the Sky World tampering with his mind? Were the spirits trying to tell him something? Was it his mother trying to grant him perspective?

He could never tell, and probably never will be able to tell.

Before he knew it, Regulars were retreating in cowardly dozens. The adrenaline never stopped pumping. He was still in a mode of battle and could not believe what was happening before his eyes.

"**We did it! They're turning tail!" **shouted a more than relieved Patriot, raising his musket in the air.

Whilst men were cheering, raising their muskets up in the air in unison, Connor sought out James, making his way across the bridge. It was a deadly sight as he walked among dead bodies soaking in pools of blood, blood as red as their coats. Reaching the other side, he was met with the horrid sight of Patriots lying dead. Were they painted in their own blood? Or was blood mixed with the corpses of the Regulars? They shed the same blood despite their opposing sides.

"**Takes a true monster to do something like this.." **said James in a grim voice as Connor walked up to him.

Was _he_ a monster? Was _Connor _the monster?

"…**At least they're gone."**

"**I should have struck when I had the chance…Do you know where Pitcairn could've gone?" **Connor inquired desperately**. **

"**Back into the withered bosom of the British, no doubt—so that he might regroup and plan his next atrocity."**

"**I need to find him. Every day I wait, more will suffer..!"**

James understood Connor's obsession, his incessant pain. Losing men was not something one wanted in war. It was inevitable, yes, but it never made it any easier as time passed. His folded hands had unraveled.

"**Chin up, friend. Many who should've died today now live because of you."**

"**And what of them?"**

He gestures an open palm at the dead Patriots. They could not be saved. HE could not save them.

"**We do the best we can with what we've got."**

"**It is not enough,"** Connor firmly says, ready to burst despite his ironclad control of his emotions on the field.

"**Hmm. It never is,"** says James, patting Connor on the shoulder with a heavy hand. How was he able to speak so calmly? Had age and war truly desensitized a man?

He knew. He just could not teach a young man the lesson. He had to learn on his own like any other soldier or general. And so he left Connor to his thoughts. The bodies surrounded him. He felt trapped, taken by the loss of not just Patriots or Recoats, but human beings. He took part in all this. The enemy was defeated for now, but at the cost of his allies.

Dear Spirits, what is this_ thing_ called **War**?

* * *

He couldn't return to Achilles. He couldn't reveal his pain, being told that he was brash and young; that he still needed to learn how to keep his heart out of his mission. He didn't want to deal with friends at the homestead asking him questions on why he was so shaken up. He didn't want to take on any more favors. He just _couldn't do it right now_..

He ground his teeth, biting away the tears threatening to fall. Up in a treetop, the leaves cocooning his body from the outside world, he wished he could just remain there and hide forever. No more favors, no more war, no more losing men that had families! What kind of assassin was he? What _good_ was he?

He was on the verge of a breakdown, and there were no more defenses left in his body to retaliate the human emotion.

* * *

Later that night, MaryLynn tossed about, the sheets twirling around her bare calves. She growled in frustration, hitting the pillow with her fist. Sitting up, dressed in her undergarments (a cotton, square-collared bodice and pantaloons), MaryLynn rubbed her eyes, her head hanging low. This was ridiculous. Why could she not fall asleep? Was it the amount of Patriots coming in for sessions? Was it their anxiety that they would reveal to her, the blonde woman trying to console them? There was not much she could do but ease their worries both physically and mentally. In all honesty, it wore her out to sell both her body and her mind.

However, it was the least she could do. She would find a way to bear through it if it meant that these men were fighting for freedom. Not just men, but even a woman. She thought of Jeanette once in a while, wondering if she was still alive. She would never know, really…

A weak, sporadic tapping at her window had startled her. It was not a consistent tapping, but a quiet, desperate sort. The dark figure at the window was easily identified. She rushed to the window, kicking away the bedsheets to reach Connor. He returned again! He was alive!

Unlocking the window to open the panes, she came to meet a Connor that she had not met before. His face was concealed by the lip of his white hood, but his lips were downturned. The blonde woman had said not a word, sensing a heavy mood surrounding her dear friend. She backed away to allow him to step inside. Slowly, Connor entered with heavy feet, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered in defeat. His body language communicated that he was about to collapse any minute. Nervous, MaryLynn was not sure what to do. She felt helpless when he wouldn't say a word to her or even look at her.

"Connor, what's wrong?" she resorts to inquiring on his mood.

He couldn't speak. His lips parted, but no words found his eager tongue. He felt his chest clench tightly, his eyes stinging like acid as the recollections of those fallen patriots on the field flashed before him. He shook his head before a sound escaped his lips in what could be determined as a gasp.

Then came the falling to his knees, his head lowered as all his emotional defenses shattered.

Finally, the tears came pouring from his dark eyes, a heavy gasp for air rattling his broad upper body. MaryLynn stood motionless in silence as she watched the Native assassin crumble before her. She had never seen him cry. Without questioning for a single moment, the blonde woman eliminated all distance between them. Before she could attempt to kneel before him, Connor had grasped her small waist in a tight hug, burying his face in her plush lower stomach. In the two years that they had known each other, this was the first time Connor had reached out to touch her, not to mention break down and fall to his knees before her very eyes.

MaryLynn pushed his white hood over his head, sailing her palm over his heated scalp. His sobbing became heavier. He did not howl in his cries, only shake violently and gasp aloud for air. His large hands had splayed over her lower back, his grip never faltering. She had no clue what had happened to cause such a reaction in this usually stone-faced man. Was Pitcairn found? Did the Patriots go into battle? Did any of them survive?

MaryLynn gasped, her blue eyes widening as her heart ceased a beat.

Jeanette. She was with the Patriot soldiers.

Dear Lord, what of the young lady? Her eyes began to crown with tears. She had met the young lady only once, but it was her determination and bravery that made the blonde woman remember her with admiration.

"I could not.." Connor spoke, his voice muffled by the cotton material of MaryLynn's bodice. "..they did not…I should have-"

"Connor," she whispered, now knowing fully well what had happened. "Connor, you did what you could."

"It's not…_sob_…e-enough!" he shouted, his tears pouring, soaking her bodice. "I sh-should have..._sob_…struck Pitcairn when I h-had the chance!"

The cotton material bunched in Connor's hands. He couldn't do it. He couldn't save the dead. Why? Why couldn't he do it this time? Yes, many men were saved because of him. However, what of the men he could not save? What of their lives? Their families? He couldn't change their fate no matter how hard he fought, how vigilant he was under British attack. James' words did not ring true to him. He could not "chin up" as the older man had told him. Men were dead because of him.

Her tears shed along with his own. She struggled to remain calm.

"Stop _hating_ yourself…for the love of God," whispered the blonde woman, her hands sailing back and forth over his scalp and around his ponytail.

The Native assassin had fallen to his knees like a broken down child weeping into his mother's clothes.

"Make it stop," he murmured in a quiet voice after he rested his cheek against her stomach. "Make it all stop and leave me be."

"I'd take it all away if I could," whispered MaryLynn in return. "I'd bring back the dead if I could."

"But you _cannot_. You cannot bring them back. You cannot bring _her_ back. I could not _save her_ either"

"Who?"

"My mother."

And there it was: his "Achilles' (no pun intended) heel." He could not save his mother, so he vowed to save everyone else.

"Stay here until you are ready to face the world again."

"I may never leave."

"I will stay here with you, then."

She gently pulled him away from her stomach, nudging his arms to loosen his grip. He obeyed, his head still lowered in defeat. MaryLynn helped him stand up, a pitiful attempt when he was twice her size. With the same gentle manner, she removed his belt of holsters and pouches, his guns and his tomahawk. Setting them aside, she slid off his long white coat, her hands grazing over his broad shoulders. He was burning up from the weeping he had undergone.

Taking him to the disheveled bed, she sat down, encouraging him to rest his head in her lap. He did so, having no energy to retaliate her words.

"You will be fine," she cooed. "Stay until you are ready to leave."

Her lap was so warm and soft against his cheek. His hand rested on her knee as he lay on his side, finding a quiet paradise against this woman's body. He never wanted to leave that spot. However, when the sun rises, he would have to leave her once again to face the cruel, cruel world.

It was his duty. For now, however...it was nice to feel the warmth of another person. Oh..so..nice..

* * *

_May 1775_

The past two weeks were utterly miserable. Her stomach was a mess, prompting her to vomit sporadically at random times. Her diet was the same, nothing strange. Having vomited during a session, beyond humiliated, she had to arrange for a visit with the physician. Once she had alerted Madame, the look on the older woman's face became grim. MaryLynn could not understand why, though. What was so terrible about a sour stomach? After the examination in a private room, the physician had pulled Madame aside to speak with her outside of the room. MaryLynn grew restless, irritated over the fact that she was not involved in the conversation. This was _her_ body! She demanded to know what was wrong!

Only the physician had reentered the room, his words hesitant. The wrinkles in his face seemed to deepen as he bestowed the news to the anxious woman.

"Ms. Mortenson…I believe you are pregnant."

* * *

**_Author's Note:_ **Yup. I went there. Not ashamed. Anyway, here's part 1 of what I have planned. I did not add the Battle at Bunker Hill to this chapter because it would be much too long. This chapter was revised a few times, and new ideas kept coming in. So, I decided on separating the Battles into two chapters.

Connor's breakdown was always planned in my head. As calm as he can be, and as short lived as his anger seemed in the actual game, there was no way that his character would NOT experience a meltdown. Losing men in battle is a huge trigger for him, especially since he is still haunted by his mother's death and not being able to rescue her. His trauma was pushed too far in this opening battle to the Revolutionary War, and I wanted to show his broken side. He will be better adjusted next chapter, but being that this is kind of his first time dealing with casualties under his command (and not just two people, more than that), I would imagine him experiencing symptoms of PTSD.

As for MaryLynn, she is pregnant. Sometimes contraceptives do not work, and it was not unheard of for prostitutes to become pregnant. What made it so difficult was being thrown out on the street (due to not being able to work) and not knowing who the father was. Please don't worry, MaryLynn will be not thrown out of the brothel. You will see what I mean, and unfortunately it will be depressing what ends up actually happening.

Work is busy as usual. Stress is stress, but hey, welcome to Adulthood. :P I love all the messages you are sending me! Thank you for your undying support and patience! I must say Connor has truly been a stress-relief to write. I feel as if my own doubts and stress go straight through him, and it only makes me love him even more.

Thank you, and sending all my love to you! To my Guest reviewers: thank you so much! I just wish you had accounts so I could PM you my gratitude! Actually, I wish had an option for Chapter pictures, not just Story pictures. I've made graphics of MaryLynn and Connor for fun, and would love to post some.

~take care

P.S.: Connor is **NOT** the father. How's that for some trashy daytime television? ;)


	10. Cruel Cruel World Pt 2

_**Chapter 9: Cruel, Cruel World Pt. 2**_

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick Brothel. _

_Italics: _Native tongue spoken or memories

**Bold: **Lines from the actual game

**(FLASH): **This indicates that the scenes between this marker are occurring at the same time. _Example:_ **A** strikes **B**. **(FLASH)** **C** strikes **D**.

_Please Note_: I tried to keep the battle scenes brief, since most of you have already played the game or watched gameplay on YouTube. My goal is to get back to my plot.

* * *

_"I hear it in the echoes  
The night is close  
The years of my sinning  
Teach me to show  
Under this feeling  
Of pain and regret  
These wounds were open  
Like lines in the sand  
The world is sleeping  
But they still have hope, so.._

_I pray for morning, I swear I'll never let you die._  
_These saints within us, can bring us more than back to life._  
_And my hearts held high with this battlecry emotion._  
_I'm not arising anymore._  
_Resurrect the sun"_

_"Resurrect the Sun" _by **Black Veil Brides**

* * *

_May 16, 1775_

"Ms. Mortenson…I believe you are pregnant. About a month along."

She stared at the physician, utterly taken aback by the unexpected news. Her mouth was slightly agape, her breath shallow.

"Pregnant…?" she reiterated, her words barely understandable. "No…No, no, I-I have been using contraceptives. This cannot be, it can't!"

"Ms. Mortenson," sighed the physician, clearly uncomfortable to be in this position despite the number of times he has had to deal with these situations, "contraceptives do not always work. As unfortunate as it is, it cannot always prevent pregnancy. Sometimes, the sperm can leak and, well…the rest is understood."

The physician awaited some sort of response from the blonde woman. She did not speak another word. Her face merely froze in expression, barely blinking her eyes. Was she going to speak? Cry? Scream? The physician could not tell. MaryLynn looked down at her hands in her lap, her blonde locks covering her face as her head hung low.

"Where is Madam?" she quietly asked, rubbing the leather bracelet that Connor had made for her. She rubbed the leather and beads over and over as if the constant motion could make this moment erase from reality.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Mortenson. I could not hear you."

"_Madam_. Bring her_ here_."

Her voice was beginning to crack as she spoke louder. Her body was beginning to shiver violently, but it was apparent that she struggled to remain still and in control of herself. The physician's lips thinned out in concern, nodding as he exited the room to fetch the Scottish madam, his black leather bag of instruments in hand. He judged the situation best be discussed between the women, and have them contact him should they consider an alternative to this pregnancy.

A minute or two passed before a head of pinned up, red curls bounced in, the older woman's face stern. Her wrinkles seemed to have deepened around her lips and small eyes.

Neither MaryLynn nor Madam was willing to look up and meet each other's gaze. In this case, there were only two options available: go through with the pregnancy or arrange for an abortion. To keep a life or to kill a life was the heavy question hovering above their heads like a predator in waiting.

Madam rubbed her dry lips, leaning her back against the wooden counter so that she would face the blonde woman across the way. MaryLynn still sat upon the examination table (a simple wooden table with linen sheets in need of wash), her head refusing to lift up.

"Wha' are your thoughts, dear?" Madam finally disrupted the silence, her gaze now settled upon MaryLynn.

MaryLynn's body looked as if it were curling in on itself with the way her upper body began to lean over. She still refused to move or even speak. Everything and nothing had shattered in her mind. She was _pregnant_, that was that. Before she knew it, she would not be able to keep up with her line of work. She would be too tired, not to mention lose clients when her stomach would swell three times its size. How would she even sing looking like an expectant mother with no husband?

"_Speak_, girl! This isn' a time to keep quiet," Madam demanded.

This situation was not going to simply disappear. It had to be dealt with immediately.

The blonde woman's lower lip quivered, her vision blurring as the tears began to crown at her eyes. A child? A _child_ was inside her? She still could not digest the news. This moment felt as if it were just an alternate reality that would return to _her_ reality in a heartbeat. But it wasn't…

This would mean…This would mean..

"You are going to throw me out," the blonde woman spoke in broken whispers, her tears hot as they ran down her cheeks. She refused to show her face out of shame.

"Wha'? I'm deaf as a dog, you're goin' to have to-"

"You're kicking me out! On the street!" she yelled, some kind of reaction finally visible.

"Kickin' you out? For Christ's sake, why would I do tha'?!"

"I-I can't do it again, I c-can't go out there!" MaryLynn shouted, her heart striking against her chest, threatening to break through her ribcage and plop out. "I'll work, I swear! I'll clean, I'll sing at the tavern more nights, I'll do the laundry, just don't _throw me out_! Don't _reject_ me!"

Her rhythm of breathing was sporadic, panic washing over her like a tidal wave. Madam was relieved that the young woman had shown some emotion, but action had to taken to calm her down. She had not experienced a panic episode in months. Rushing over to the blonde woman, Madam embraced her shaking body, holding tightly in hopes of calming her down. No whiskey this time. Just human contact and tough words of love.

"You list'n to me, and you list'n well," the older woman spoke in a firm tone, loud enough for MaryLynn to hear. "I am not throwin' you out on the street like a soulless twat. I trust tha' you did not do this on purpose. We will figure this out."

"But," she choked out, her breathing rapid and broken as she tried to speak.

A panic episode had arived at the thought of living off the street again, at the thought of leaving yet another home. Rejection. Panic. Survival. All of this pressure had shaken the blonde woman to the core like never before. She had not had a panic episode in several months. And yet, it felt like a familiar presence that never left her side. It took a toll on her body as her stomach began to churn.

"Breathe! Jus' breathe," Madam said, fetching a wastebasket for her girl should she need it.

MaryLynn vomited with force into the held up wastebasket, choking in between as air became much too hard to breathe. It was painful to regurgitate everything from her stomach. Her throat would burn, and her stomach would twitch. She felt exhausted once it was all over. Madam's facial features softened, the wrinkles slightly disappearing.

"Let it all come out," cooed the older woman, rubbing MaryLynn's back with her unoccupied hand.

Once MaryLynn had regained some breath, she raised a hand to signify that she was alright now. Madam set aside the wastebasket and fetched a nearby rag to wipe the blonde woman's mouth clean. She could see that her blue eyes were swollen, rabbit red with tears. Her small hands clutched around her lower stomach, almost trying to understand that a life was growing inside.

Madam noticed the action, and decided to ask once more what the young woman was going to do about this pregnancy.

"First off, I am not puttin' you out on the street. Let's get tha' straight. Second off, you need to figure out whether or not you're keepin' this baby. It's your call, dearie. There are no judgments on my part."

A few deep breaths were taken in.

…_Inhale_…_Exhale_…_Inhale_…_Exhale_…

A deep sigh.

Her hands were shaking from the panic, but it became easier to force them to remain still. Her head began to clear of any memories of the streets or rejection for something she had no control over. She was still here, in this brothel, in this home, with a woman who cared for her like a mother. She was still here, and would not been thrown out. She was safe…She was safe…

MaryLynn managed to lift up her head and look at the older woman's small dark eyes.

"I'm not killing this baby," she whispered, forcing her voice to come through, even if a rasp was the best she could manage. "It is not its fault for its creation."

"This won' be easy, MaryLynn," Madam crossed her arms, hoping the young woman understood exactly what she was getting in to. "Understand what you are sayin'."

"I _do _understand. Why reject this baby when it had done _nothing_ wrong? Why should I reject it the way _I_ was rejected? If_ I_ was given a chance, then so should this baby."

"The physician had said tha' you are only a month or so in this pregnancy. It is still early to decide on wha' to do. For now, you need to rest. Cancel all your appoin'ments and any walk-ins for the week 'til this sickness settles. As for the Green Dragon, you figure tha' part out."

Madam did not have the heart to tell her girl that this baby may or may not survive. Miscarriages were common, and for a baby to survive on the first try was simply a miracle of God. She knew what it was like to lose a baby that was not even given the chance to live a life. It was hell. It was hell to even recall when she knew of its death inside her body, a young woman not sure of where she was going in life. She silently prayed that it would not happen to MaryLynn. However, at least she was not alone like Madam was in her youth. If she could make a difference this time around, she would remain beside MaryLynn until it was over. Whatever that meant.

Some prostitutes over the years had decided on abortions, while others left the brothel in hopes of finding work at taverns or bakeries in other towns, hoping their reputation wasn't known in these areas away from the brothels. Madam just could not bear to tell her. The young woman was upset enough. Why warn her of it possibly dying?

"Be prepared," was all that the older woman could muster up to say. "You don' know wha' will happen. Do you know who the father is?"

"I don't know…" she said meekly, embracing her stomach tightly.

"Are you _sure_?"

"It's not Connor, if that is what you are implying. He has stayed over once before, but has never lain with me. He _barely touches_ me, Madam."

"He can't jus' stay whenever he feels like it. I'm not runnin' a flippin' inn here! If he wants to stay for the night, then he will jus' have to go next door to the Green Dragon and hope they have a room for him."

"I understand. I'm sorry."

Madam watched as MaryLynn looked away in a cloudy gaze. Her mind began to race again with thoughts over what will happen to her if she keeps this baby. What will change? Will she be able to handle the change? Could she even be a good mother? Was she even ready? She couldn't raise a child here in the Maverick. For God's sake, not in a brothel. Madam had firmly refused to deny her a home, but she was still afraid of losing a home. If she couldn't work, how could she earn her stay? She could sing on more nights at the Green Dragon. However, what will happen when the pregnancy was visible? Who would want to see an expecting mother sing, trying to be seductive with a round belly and swollen feet?

'Maybe this is a sign,' thought Madam. For a moment, she thought that she could foresee the future of the blonde woman. She did not know when, but she knew that MaryLynn would leave this brothel. Soon. Her best girl was meant to live a full life, not waste away in a place where she will not be wanted when a certain age had been reached. Hopefully, MaryLynn will have the courage to take that chance to _live_ her life the way she _deserved_. Madam had accepted her own fate a long time ago, but it did not have to be MaryLynn's fate. One day, she will realize that she had grown out of her roles, and risk forming new roles in a new place. Hopefully, this baby will inspire her. The older woman doubted it, given all the responsibility of raising a child. However, it was still something to force MaryLynn to look at another way of life.

'Wha' am I doin' just standing aroun' and thinkin'? This girl needs rest,' Madam snapped herself out of her runaway train of thoughts.

"C'mon, dearie. Let's get you to bed. The world is not endin'. We will make the decision at another time."

"No," MaryLynn said quietly. "I made my decision. I am not killing this child. She deserves a chance at life. I'll bear through it."

"How do you know it is a _'she'_?"

MaryLynn did not answer. The gender had slipped through her lips. Was she actually speaking of herself? Did she want a chance at life? Madam knew exactly what the blonde woman meant, and perhaps she was right. They _both_ deserved a good life.

"If you say so. I will do wha' I can to help you along the way."

Motioning with her hand slowly, MaryLynn asked for Madam to come closer. Just as the older woman came closer, MaryLynn had embraced her around the neck, burying her face in her crisp white blouse.

"Don't give up me, please," pleaded the young woman.

"I never did, and never will, dearie. You're safe here."

Lifting up her chin to rest it upon Madam's shoulder, MaryLynn looked over at her wrist that wore the bracelet. Bringing the wrist closer, she quietly kissed the bracelet, her tears dripping down onto the leather and beads that Connor had lovingly crafted for him. Sanctuary. _Sanctuary._

* * *

_May 20, 1775_

He watched her from the window outside as she performed her last song for the night. He had hopped down from his seat atop the wooden awning to await her presence. Her voice was always lovely, but it appeared that she had trouble breathing. It was not a serious matter, mind you. However, she seemed to take longer pauses to catch her breath, her hand constantly touching her lower stomach. 'Perhaps she is just tired,' thought Connor, figuring that he was examining her body language a little too closely. He could not sustain from analyzing body language. It was what he did best every day, but it was not called for in casual encounters.

It was not long before he saw MaryLynn bid Surry goodbye with a kiss on the cheek. She waved at two men who raised their glasses of ale in her direction, her smile half-spirited, but genuine nonetheless. Connor stood away from the door when she was about to open the said door. Brushing off her emerald green skirt, MaryLynn looked up from her dusting and froze in her tracks once Connor's deep voice made itself known.

"Are you feeling well?" the Native assassin questioned, his tone softening.

"Good evening to you too, Connor," MaryLynn tittered, clearing her throat of the sour taste in her mouth. "Yes, I'm feeling just fine."

The last statement was uttered a little too hastily to Connor's ears. Something did not seem right with her response. That little hand of hers seemed to rub her stomach once more. His dark eyes narrowed, deciding to question her further.

"I wanted to see you before I left for Philadelphia. Are you _sure_ you are feeling well?"

She avoided his gaze for a moment before looking back to him. He was not convinced. He could not know about her pregnancy. It was her business, and she did not want anyone else besides herself and Madam to know of it. The girls of the Maverick did not even know!

"Yes, I am just…_ill_. Sour stomach, that's all."

Exhaling through his nostrils, Connor stepped down from his interrogation, offering to walk his dear friend home. She bid him her gratitude, clearing her throat once more. Mulling over how colonial men sometimes offered their arm to women for support, Connor hesitantly offered his own arm to the blonde woman. He bit into his lower lip, nervous over his execution of the custom. Was it correct? Was it inappropriate?

"You're very sweet," she said with a soft laugh, her hands gently taking hold of his elbow.

Connor relaxed just a tad, seeing that his gesture was accepted graciously. He sighed, finding himself enjoying the contact. If she was ill, it was best to support her in case she felt faint. Even if she did not faint on the way home, it was still rather nice to feel her touch again. He had not felt her warmth since the night he came to her with broken emotions, not to mention a broken spirit.

"Y-you look like you have not slept in a long time," he initiated some conversation, his heart beginning to pound over her touch. " Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes, I am!" she shouted, but not with anger. " I am still here, am I not? Please, don't worry over me."

"I _do_ worry.

"I'll be here when you return, Connor."

"Promise that you will rest when needed. Do not push yourself. You give me your word?"

"Yes."

Connor nodded, having no other choice but to accept her promise.

"Fine. I trust you."

On reaching the Maverick, MaryLynn asked if they could remain outside and talk for a while. The weather was nice, and it would be a shame to waste. He accepted her offer with a nod of his head. It would be nice to spend time together outside rather than in her bedroom or the Green Dragon. They sat upon the steps to the front door, retaining an appropriate distance from one another. Connor was not ready for more physical contact, trying to settle his nerves and eagerness to touch her again. 'Calm down, she is not your friend so that you can touch her. You should not like this too much. Focus.'

"Connor," she began, somewhat hesitant in continuing her speech as she looked down at her leather bracelet.

The Native assassin saw that she wore the bracelet he had crafted for her. She was not lying when she promised to wear it often. This little observation had tugged at his heartstrings. He was still not satisfied with the crooked diamond patterns. However, if MaryLynn loved it, then he would just have to live with that.

"Yes?"he answered, giving the blonde woman his full attention.

"Tell me about your homestead community."

"Why do you ask?" he inquired with a cocked eyebrow. She had never really asked about his current residence. The question was welcomed, do not mistake that. However, it was a question that felt unexpected and out of place.

"I have never truly asked about where you live and what it is like. I've heard names, and I already know a little about Achilles and the manor; but I don't know anything more than that. I mean, you know where _I_ live, and you have visited many times before."

"This is true. Sure, I will tell you if you like. We have colonists coming in to live on the homestead, some of them I have invited. Some were victims of British authority here in Boston. Others were living in the frontier on their own. At the homestead, the rules are fair and the community works together as a unit. We are doing well. A modest status, but it is good enough. We have a physician and a minister. A few of the families that reside there work on certain crafts to improve the homestead, like tailoring clothes, woodwork, tending to a farm. A couple of the men are building a church as we speak."

"Really?" MaryLynn asked, her eyes lighting up. "It all sounds so lovely. These people seem hardworking. How is this minister you mentioned? What is he like?"

"Oh, Father Timothy is fairly new to the community. He is a gentle man, always willing to listen to anyone who needs another person's perspective on life. He serves as a great counselor."

"I'd love to meet him. I'd love to see the new church. "

A new church. New people. New minister. Fresh pews and carpeting, even! It painted a beautiful picture in her mind, one where few people attended the sermons and shared their respect comfortably. A minister who was positive and gentle, maybe even inspiring during these hard times. Nothing like Christ's Church, which was usually crowded and uncomfortable. It just did not call to her to attend that church. Maybe she should give Christ's Church another chance, but this new church sounded like a better alternative.

Connor was not oblivious to the blonde woman's opinion on churches. When he had taken her to the abandoned King's Chapel last year, he noted that she was the type of person to worship in silence, in privacy. A few people would not bother her. However, her nature was reserved when it came to her religion. He respected her wishes.

"I will take you there once it is complete. Whenever you wish. What is wrong with the churches here in Boston, if I may ask?"

"Too crowded. The sermons haven't changed since I was a little girl: fear inducing, dramatic. This Father Timothy sounds like a soft-spoken gentleman. I would be interested to hear his point of view on this world in his sermons."

"I think you would enjoy his sermons. Father Timothy is very tranquil. I don't think he is even capable of being 'dramatic,' as you say. He is a peaceful man. I sometimes do not know how he maintains that state of mind. I try to learn from him when I can."

She smiled warmly.

"I'd like to visit one day. May I visit?"

"Of course you can," Connor said eagerly, his dark eyes bearing a small spark. "You do not know how long I have been waiting for you to ask."

His subtle excitement had faltered, a serious expression tensing his facial features once more.

"However, I won't be able to take you to the homestead anytime soon. I am closer to tracking down Pitcairn, and I have to leave for Philadelphia. Soon, I promise you. Next time I am about return to the homestead, I will take you with me for a visit. And I will bring you home when you ask."

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling rather shy all of a sudden. At least a sense of safety had given her hope for a new day. Knowing that Connor was there for her was enough to ease her down. It would not make this pregnancy go away, but at least there was some light in this situation.

Why did she ask Connor these question now, of all times? A part of her wanted to know so dearly that there was a place for her to visit, a place to feel safe for a while before returning to Boston. A temporary sanctuary. Even if she wouldn't live there, at least it was a place where she knew that there was a good friend residing there. What would he say when he sees that she is with child? Would her child be welcomed as well? MaryLynn almost did not want to think of leaving Connor after a visit at this homestead. What if she enjoyed it too much? Best keep mum about these thoughts. Besides, it was not like she could pay him rent for long.

Still, it was a nice thought.

* * *

_June 16, 1775_

_Continental Congress in __Philadelphia_

"And who the _hell _are you?"

Connor's nostrils flared as he stared down at the seated man with the greasy moustache. Charles Lee had been in the same room as he, right under his nose. He ground his teeth before he spoke again to the infamous Lee.

"Take a closer look," he said in an alarmingly calm, angry tone, ready to fight amongst these gentlemen.

Sam shot up from his seat beside Connor, immediately seizing the Native assassin's biceps to hold him back.

"Connor, ol' boy," said Sam aloud, trying to lighten the situation and get the angry young man away from Charles Lee, who was oblivious to these flaring emotions towards him. "I'm eager to introduce you to someone, please come with me."

As Sam pulled Connor away from the aisles, Lee muttered under his breath in a mocking tone, "What did I do, cut down his favorite tree?"

Once the men were away from earshot, Sam had spoke in a lowered voice, leaning in so Connor could hear him.

"Sorry about that, but the last thing we need is brawl in the middle of congress. This isn't a tavern, you know."

"You don't understand what that man has done," said Connor, his pupils dilated and his jaw visibly tense.

"I can only imagine," Sam calmly muttered with sympathy. "His slimy reputation runs amuck more than you think it does. Save it for another time, Connor. Use your head, not your fists."

Connor's jaw tensed further. Sam was right about the situation. Now was not the time to tear down Lee, now that a Commander-in-Chief was just appointed, an event that should be respected with silence. He looked over once more at Lee, who bore a sour facial expression as he fiddled with a quill.

"**Come on, let me introduce you to George. Let Lee sulk over his rejection of being Commander-in-Chief,"** Sam winked at the last statement. "Take some satisfaction from that at least."

Once Connor eased at least some of his anger, Sam motioned with his hand for the young man to walk up to Washington for a formal introduction.

"Connor, allow me to introduce you to our newly appointed Commander-in-Chief, George Washington."

Reluctantly, Connor stepped up along with Sam to meet George. He had heard of the man's success and failures alike. However, his unbreakable will was highly admired. As he looked upon the man, who smiled warmly at him, Connor felt a quiet need to ask the man how he dealt with his failures, how he woke up each and every morning knowing that he did not always succeed. Alas, he pushed aside the thought.

Sam shakes his hand as he introduces George. George's eyes light up with respect, meeting Connor's gaze directly.

"**Ah! So you're the one who saved Sam and John at Lexington. **You are becoming quite the legend, young man."

"**It was the Patriots who did that,"** said Connor, looking away with embarrassment over George's naturally warm personality. **"I merely lent support."**

George chuckles at the Native assassin's formal disposition. He was modest over his deeds, despite his youth. Most young men would feel cocky over their accomplishments in battle, but this young man seemed to hold his own, sharing his success with others gladly.

"**As humble as he is brave,"** says George, shaking Connor's hand firmly. **"We could use more men like you. **In youth, it is easy to take immense pride in such things and accept the glory. However, you are gracious, my friend, despite your age. I respect that."

Connor was so quiet in this man's presence, and he could not figure out _why_! There was this charisma and honesty about George that seemed to intimidate him. Mind you, he was not threatened. He was impressed, maybe even admired him.

"**I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me—I should attend to Charles over there. He looks none too happy about being passed over for command. It was good to meet you Connor." **

His hand graciously waved the gentlemen goodbye before departing to deal with a disgruntled Charles Lee, sulking inwardly over the rejection.

"**Tell me you have news of Pitcairn,"** Connor immediately whispered when the close was clear.

George seemed like a loyal man, but now was time for Connor to get back on track. Ever since his breakdown after Lexington and Concord, he had trained harder, faster. He was more determined now more than ever. He allowed himself a night with MaryLynn to weep and lick his wounds. However, just as the blazing sun arose each and every morning, it was time to move on with his day.

"**I'm told he's taken shelter in Boston, where he's guarded by a thousand redcoats. The only way you're to get at him is if we draw him out. Lucky for you, we're launching an offensive against the city in order to do just that. Israel Putnam has been given command of our forces. Present this.."**

He hands Connor a letter.

"**..to him and he'll provide whatever aid you require. You'll find him at the encampment on Bunker Hill."**

"**You have my thanks,"** he said in an emotionless voice, although his eyes glazed over with eagerness and intensity.

Sam could not help but notice the emotion painted upon the young man's face. Every time he had asked for Pitcairn's whereabouts, his tone of voice would become firmer, harsh. And at the sight of Connor reacting to Charles Lee's presence, not entirely sure what the insect of a man had done, Sam knew that Connor was swallowing down much more than stress. As he watched the young man leave the meeting room, he debated whether or not to pull him aside and talk to him.

'Maybe I should let him come to me,' the statesman thought. 'The last thing that boy needs is a nagging parent.' Little did Sam know, a nagging parent was probably what the Native assassin needed, at least ONE parent to care for his wellbeing. Sighing deeply as he rubbed his forehead, Sam exited the room, hoping for the best.

Connor found himself lingering in the state house, walking from room to room, casually eavesdropping on gentlemen's conversations. He knew he had to leave to seek out Israel Putnam in Boston, but some invisible force had kept him here in Philadelphia. He had so many questions to ask about this war, about someone else's perspective; but he felt inferior for even thinking of such things. On a rare occasion, he actually felt his age of twenty one years instead of fifty one years. Why did Connor find himself so idle? He could stare at portraits of men in powdered white wigs for so long.

It could have been the fact that Charles Lee had been located in the same exact building as he. And he couldn't _kill_ him.

He couldn't kill the man who had choked him as a helpless child until he could see the spirits. The man who prevented him from saving his mother, his village from burning. The fire in his belly singed. He wanted his revenge NOW. He couldn't, not in front of these people. _'Damn it all! The man still lives, still gets away with his life!' he thought. _'_Soon...__Soon_.'

He will have his time soon. Pitcairn was the current target for now. He had to work his way up the Templar hierarchy to reach the top men to kill. Eventually, he will meet the Grand Master of the Templars face to face, who was his own _father_. Then, and only then, will everything be settled.

Making peace with the present, leaving the past and the future to rest, the Native assassin finally decides to leave the state house. As he is descending the red velvet carpeted staircase, the polished dark wood slick under his fingers, he finds Sam Adams standing before a window, his stance casually swaying from side to side. Before departing, Connor decides to speak with Sam once more. He walks over to the window, his heavy feet scuffing the carpet with a _swish, swish, swish_.

"**Still here, are you?" **says Sam, noticing Connor in his peripheral vision.

"**I was just wondering**…Do ever doubt yourself?"

The statesman chuckles deep in his throat. So the boy did come around after all.

"I've had my fair share of doubts, of course. Only human, eh? But, what we're fighting for is worth the doubt and the stress. _Freedom_, Connor. Freedom is worth all of it. Whomever cannot live to see that day are actually at peace with God, free from this suffering."

"I try to have faith in such things. However, I have had trouble sleeping, thinking about the men I could not save."

"Connor, don't put yourself through that. As tempting as it is, do not hold yourself accountable to these casualties. These men know what they risk when entering into this war. After Lexington and Concord, there is no turning back. Is that why you've been so unsettling?"

Connor could not answer. He looked away, focusing absentmindedly on the window glass.

"I know of Lee's mistreatment of your people," Sam continued, a grim expression dimming his usually bright eyes. "I could tell by the fury in your eyes back in that meeting that you meant to kill that man with your bare hands. I will not prod you for details, but what you are avenging should be left for the right time. Death will only give him mercy. Let him live so that he can suffer even further in this life. Yet, it is up to you what you do with that situation."

Connor nodded lightly, his gaze returning to Sam's understanding expression. The idleness nibbling away at him seemed to dissipate thankfully. Connor was not one to talk about his thoughts, but this did not seem to leave him feeling weak or foolish. He actually felt understood.

"Thank you, Samuel. It's not easy for me to admit to my thoughts, but I do worry. I doubt myself sometimes, wondering if I am doing the right thing."

"Well, you are human, are you not?" Sam reasoned, his brows raised. "It's perfectly fine to doubt yourself once in a while. Understand that you are not perfect, and that you are young. No need to be a serious old man like myself, ha ha! Enjoy your youth while you can. I'll ask you this, then: When everything is said and done, does it feel right? When you look at people so gratuitous to be saved, finding some relief from this tyranny, thanking you for your aid and support…Does it feel right then?"

"…Yes. Yes it does," Connor affirms, staring out the window with a far-away gaze. "I want to see people happy. I want them protected, both my people and the colonists. Everyone deserves freedom."

Sam partially smiled, crossing his arms as he lifted his chin in the air.

"Then you are doing the right thing, my boy. If it feels right, have faith in that. Let no one take away your faith."

"I don't think that is even possible."

Sam chuckled at the young man's confirmation in his beliefs. Connor cleared his throat, deviating from the personal talk to that of business talk.

"So, **what happens now**?"

"**There's quite a lot to do. Commander Washington must determine when and where we'll strike next. And we need to get to work on our message."**

"**Message?"**

"**We must contact the broadsheets at once—ensure it's clear to everyone that it was the Loyalists who fired first at Lexington." **

"**But no one knows who fired first…" **interjected Connor. After all, he was present for that battle in Lexington, and even he did not know who had fired first.

"**Which is exactly why we should spread the news quickly," **reasoned Sam, understanding where Connor was coming from. **"We'll determine public opinion."**

"**This seems dishonest…" **

The Native assassin did not feel right about this plan. It was downright lying. He had suddenly recalled being a fifteen-year-old boy, working with Sam in a print shop to change his reputation in the city just after the Boston Massacre. Again, lies to steer the people away from the truth, to protect some people and harm others. Even today, propaganda did not feel like an honest act to him.

"**Perhaps. But so what?" **Sam tried to press his reasoning, his eyebrows raised and his palms open at his sides.** "People must believe we acted in self-defense. Else, we've committed treason."**

"**But you have," **the Native assassin would not back down from his observation.

"**Better to bow and scrape before a tyrant, then? Is that what you suggest?"**

"**No, of course not. No one should be denied freedom. And yet…To change the truth…It seems a dangerous road to travel."**

He tried to view the plan through Sam's eyes, but it was difficult. The Loyalists had lied to portray the Rebels as nothing but rowdy rascals in need of discipline. Were the Patriots not doing the same exact thing when the facts were not even clear? Connor sighed deeply. Wasn't there another way, an _honest_ way to take down the Loyalists and the Templar Order? Sam remained patient with Connor, despite his irritation beginning to rise. The young man was acting his own age for once. This could be a positive event _and_ a negative event, depending on how one viewed the situation.

"**Understand, Connor, this is a war fought not just on the battlefield, but within hearts and minds as well. There's nothing wrong with a bit of theater—especially if it saves lives."**

'But what if this "theater," as he calls it, only worsens this war?' thought Connor. 'What if this plan only makes us as dishonest and controlling as the Templars are? There are well-meaning reasons behind these actions, but I cannot deny this unsettling feeling inside me. Perhaps I am just anxious. I will know what to do when I return to Boston.'

* * *

_Next Day_

He could hear the blasts of cannons and battle cries in the distance as he followed the Patriot soldier to Breed's Hill on horse. Bunker Hill was originally meant to be where the encampment would be located, but, according to the soldier, there was some "disagreement" over this original plan. Artilleries were assembled in various spots on these hills under Israel Putnam's command. It was best to attack when least expected, and cover all bases to be sure. The goal of this plan was to force Loyalists' to rethink their plans and scare them off. Perhaps even weasel John Pitcairn out of his precious cocoon of polished artillery and British soldiers.

Shortly after presenting him Sam's letter to confirm Connor's role, the Patriot soldier had agreed to take him to General Putnam. His heart began to pound as the echoes of the blasts became louder. Immense blasts such as this had to have come from ships. The harbor was not too far from Breed's Hill. Pitcairn was toying with the fact that Patriot soldiers did not possess advanced artillery or even the money to obtain them. _Damn_ this bastard!

Connor breathed in deeply, his grip on the reins firm. This was another battle, another day. He had to have faith that whomever did not survive will find peace. Now was not the time to doubt himself. He had learned this from the battles at Lexington and Concord. This was a war, and if he was not able to swallow the emotions, then he might as well go home.

This was NOT an option.

Once reaching Breed's Hill, Connor could hear a man with a loud, raspy voice shouting curse words and shooting down arguments with soldiers. Connor assumed him to be Israel Putnam.

"**I don't care for your excuses, gentlemen. We should be building on Bunker Hill. Breed's is closer to the city, but it is also closer to their artillery!" **

"**Our orders came from men so divorced from the situation, we are compelled by reason to employ our own faculties to make a proper determination," **one minuteman stood up, trying to reason with the general. The men were beyond frustrated, and now was not the time to bite heads off.

"**Were that I could understand even HALF that nonsense you just uttered.."**Putnam spat, rolling his eyes at the younger man.

"**What's not to understand? I'm trying to ensure our victory!"**

"**What would you know of victory?!"**

This would not be easy to interject..

Walking up to the station where the pair of men was arguing behind stationed soldiers, Connor himself was at a loss for words. This was it. Enter the battle. Never look back.

Before his mind could register the sight of the battlefield before him, a cannon flew by nearly ten feet away from his head, only to clash into a soldier, blowing off his left leg. The sight was horrid, the soldier falling to the ground and grasping himself, screaming in agony as his hand reached out in the air for some sort of relief…_anything_…Sadly, all was lost for him.

"**I rest my case,"** Putnam declared coolly as men began to scurry about in panic, a cigar lodged between his lips.

Was he not even the _least_ bit phased? '_He is _insane,' thought Connor, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at the general.

"**I'm going back to Bunker Hill," **Putnam waved casually, strolling away as if he were leaving a casual get-together at a local tavern. **"Good-day, gentlemen."**

"**General Putnam!"** Connor called out after the surly man, speeding up his pace to reach him.

"**What?"**

"**I'm looking for John Pitcairn. I was told you'd be able to help me find him."**

"**He's tucked away inside the city with no reason to leave. So long as that ship continues its assault, we'll never flush him out."**

"**But if the ship was silenced…"**

"**..Then poor John might be forced to get off his arse and come forward!"**

Connor noted a torn Colonial flag on the ground, thinking it'll be useful in his next move to eliminate the ships' black powder supplies, ceasing their firing at Breed's Hill. He reached down to pick it up and displayed it for Putnam to see.

"**I shall fly this flag to signal my success." **

"**And I shall speak fondly of you at your funeral," **Putnam sarcastically remarked with a wave of his hand, leaving the scene for this young man and his wild ideas to survive on their own.

Connor watched as Putnam walked away. He was not offended by this man's doubt. This only fueled him even more to succeed. _'You will see, Putnam. And I will be smiling once you _do_ see.'_

Racing through Charlestown, Connor was encased in a storm of debris and blood raining upon the ground. Cannon blasts had painted the air grey, ash and soot clogging his lungs. It was difficult to see, the embers in the air causing his eyes to water. All he could register was the sight of the town falling apart and the sounds of the cannon fire roaring with hunger for destruction. Taking to the roofs, Connor gained better vision of where he was going. Down below, amongst the fire and broken homes, people were either running or lying down, awaiting their fate. He truly witnessed a hell on earth. Forcing himself to not look down, to not engage his heart, Connor sharpened his focus on his goal of infiltrating the ships. He was almost there. The harbor was just ahead! _'Focus and be done with this. Get back to Bunker Hill and then finish Pitcairn off for good,'_ he coached himself.

About an hour later, with the final flag set to fly on the third ship to signify his success, Connor dives from the deck and into the ocean.

Off to Bunker Hill. _'Let's see what remarks Putnam has ready for me. I can honestly say I am interested in listening when he sees that I live.'_

* * *

_On Bunker Hill_

"**The enemy advances and you tremble. They've better numbers, you say. Bette training. But I do not fear, and neither should you. For what they have in material, they lack in conviction and care. But not us. We have discipline. We have order. And most importantly, we have passion. We believe! So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of sight. And above all else, men…do not fire until you see the whites of their eyes."**

The soldiers march out, keeping Putnam's words alive in their determined minds. Connor navigates through the men, reaching Putnam, who sat down on a crate. The surly general was still puffing on that dirty old cigar.

"**Well I'll be damned,"** says Putnam, blowing out a cloud of smoke with a "_pop_." ** "You did it." **

"**That was quite a speech."**

"**Lies, all of it, I'm afraid,"** he smirks morbidly. **"Still, such words have carried us thus far.."**

"**And what of Pitcairn?"**

"**He's left Boston, as I said he would, and set up camp on Moulton Hill."**

He offers Connor a telescope so that he could better see Pitcairn's location. He could see Pitcairn on his steed, Redcoats raising their muskets before marching off to their stations.

"**There's no good way to get to him—not with that maelstrom brewing down below. I suppose you could circle around a bit, or wait for us to thin out their ranks," **Putnam offered a cautious plan for Connor to follow, not entirely trusting of how much the Native assassin was willing to risk.

"**There is no time,"** said Connor, knowing that the safest tactic was the worst tactic in his mind. **"I will have to chance direct approach."**

"**That's twice today you've proposed the impossible!" **shouted general, nearly laughing with shock.

"**I see no other choice," **Connor firmly attested to his approached.

"**That's 'cause you're mad as a march hare, son," **muttered Putnam, nibbling on his cigar.

"**I expect an apology on my return,"** Connor speaks with an unwavering determination, his gaze never breaking from Putnam's. He was rather tired of people doubting his methods and abilities. Let them wait and see…

_**(FLASH)**_

Dusting off the counter in the kitchen, MaryLynn struggles to keep moving. An incessant pain in her lower stomach had been agonizing her since this morning. She figured that it was just a normal symptom, nothing to worry over. However, the pain became worse once the dusting rag reached a corner of the counter. She yells out in pain as her knees buckle beneath her. The blonde woman grabs onto the edge of the counter for support, trying to prevent her fall. One hand reaches down to grasp her lower stomach tightly.

_**(FLASH)**_

Connor crosses the battlefield. The clacking eruption of cannon fire made him nearly deaf.

Blasts.

Smoke.

Screams.

All sensation had blurred into one as he pushed himself down that dirt covered, blood stained field. Managing to dodge each cannon fire and gun shot, he could almost hear the sound of limbs being blown apart, the screams deafening him to the core.

_**(FLASH)**_

She drops to the floor on her knees, letting go of the counter's edge. She yells out once more, feeling a thick, wet liquid form between her thighs. Looking down, she comes to find the horrid sight of blood soaking her petticoat and skirt.

_**(FLASH)**_

He fights to remain alive, dodging attacks and maneuvering from cover to cover between the volleys where soldiers were stationed. Pitcairn was just up ahead. He had to survive. He had to brave through the bodies and the puddles of blood staining his path to victory. He just _had _to, no excuses!

_**(FLASH)**_

It wasn't until minutes later that a pair of girls had heard the blonde woman's cries. Her lower body was covered in blood, her knees radiating with pain, digging into the hardwood floor. Her head was bowed forward as she clutched her stomach, the pain becoming unbearable as tears crowned her eyes.

"Get the physician!" called out a girl, panicking at the sight. "Someone help! _Please_!"

Before she could say a word to the other girl who tried to lift her up from the floor, the blood loss had resulted in a fainting spell. The blonde woman fully collapsed into the girl's arms like a fallen soldier. Her hands still remained positioned over her lower stomach, blood beginning to soak her palms.

_**(FLASH)**_

He saw blood on their bodies. Limbs gone. Chests blown open to the core. Faces deranged in blood and fire.

Taking to the treetops along the upper sections of the battlefield, the Hellish scene was no more in his dark eyes. He swallowed any sickness birthing in his throat and stomach. He had to move forward for the fallen ones. Pray that they would feel pain no longer.

Dashing from treetop to treetop, he manages to locate Pitcairn from afar. _'Right there. Stay right there. I see you, Pitcairn. I see you…'_

Crouching cautiously atop a lone branch, he counts down to the perfect moment to leap forward and tackle the older man. When that delicious moment had arrived, Pitcairn riding his horse ever so close below, Connor finally leaps off the branch, tackling Pitcairn off his horse. The hidden blade had pierced into the man's throat at a diagonal angle, a gruesome injection for his final breath. Picking himself up from the ground quickly, Connor finds Pitcairn coughing, his pale hands shaking from the trauma. His face was splattered with blood, his throat beginning to clog with the thick crimson liquid. Connor cradles the older man's head in his hand, crouching down with his back erect.

"**Why…Why did you do this?" **questions the older man, trying to register what had happened.

"**To protect Adams and Hancock—and those they serve. You meant to kill them-" **Connor answered firmly, trying to control his anger.

"**Kill them? Are you mad? I wanted only to parlay. There was so much to discuss. To explain." **Pitcairn struggled with every last bit of his energy to speak, the blood loss beginning to affect his speech and movements. **"But you've put an end to that now."**

Pitcairn's voice sounded desperate, disappointing even. This was not the kind of man that Connor had expected to see. But then again, didn't all men act differently when they were sure that death was inevitable?

"**If you speak true, then I will carry your last words to them," **Connor softened his voice, somehow beginning to feel pity for the older man.

"**They must lay down their arms. They must stop this war!" **cried Pitcairn, his head clashing from side to side.

"**Why them and not the Redcoats?" **his anger sparked once more.

"**Do you not think we asked the same question of the British? These things take time. And I would have succeeded, had you let me play my part."**

"**The part of the puppeteer," **Connor interjected curtly.

"**Better we hold the strings than another."**

"**No! The strings should be severed. All should be free."**

"**And we should live forever on castles in the sky. You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth," **Pitcairn coughed, wheezing as he forced air into his lungs. **"..your mouth like a child. And more will die now because of that.."**

John Pitcairn shivers violently before allowing the weight of his head to fall. His final breath is shallow, lingering for just a moment before departing his lungs for the final time.

"_**It is better to have faith in something than none at all.." **_mutters Connor in his native tongue, his convictions still in tact over freedom for all.

He closes he older man's dead eyes. He then confiscates his crimson coat for anything useful. Hmm. A letter. Connor retrieves it from the breast pocket, experiencing yet another moment of déjà vu. Hadn't he done this before?

Before he could read the letter, Regulars come marching in to investigate the scene. Dashing on the balls of his feet, Connor escapes as fast as his aching legs could take him.

* * *

_Back on Bunker Hill_

"**How dare you sneak up on me like that!" **screams Israel Putnam at a soldier who stood cowardly behind him. "**Why don't you just go off there and just help this camp retreat! Don't ever do that again, you hear me? God**_**damnit**_**!"**

"**General Putnam," **Connor addresses him, hiding any sign of weariness as he approaches the general.

"**You live," **smirks Putnam, his lips digging into a fresh cigar.

The man seemed to possess an endless supply of the blasted things. Where exactly did he stock all these little suckers on himself?

"**The same cannot be said for Pitcairn," **said Connor coolly, walking up to Putnam's side.

"**Well done, I suppose. But it matters little now. I'm ordering a full retreat. We have lost too many in exchange for too little. If the Tories want this hill so badly, let them have it. Boston is the true prize."**

The pair of men looked over Boston from their stance atop the hill. The buildings. The business, The people. Yes, that was the true prize to be won in this battle, not pathetic mounds of dirt.

"**We have a bigger problem,"** says Connor, flicking the letter he confiscated off of Pitcairn to the general without looking at him.

"**What do you mean?" **

He hastily takes the letter from Connor's fingers and reads it through. For a moment, he actually pulls his beloved cigar out of his mouth to speak.

"**This can't be right," **says the general, beyond disbelieving of the contents of the letter. **"It says they plan to murder Washington!"**

* * *

Part 3 is just a click away! **Author's Note** will be provided then. _Read and review_. ~


	11. Cruel Cruel World Pt 3

**Chapter 10: ****Cruel Cruel World Pt. 3**

**I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick brothel.**

_Italics: _Native tongue spoken

This was originally supposed to be in two parts, but more material came through.

* * *

_"Where there is desire_

_There is gonna be a flame_

_Where there is a flame_

_Someone's bound to get burned_

_But just because it burns_

_Doesn't mean you're gonna die_

_You've gotta get up and try, try, try..._

_Gotta get up and try, try, try..._

_You've gotta get up and try, try try..."_

_-"Try" _by **P!nk**

* * *

_June 26, 1775_

"MaryLynn? Why won't you open the window? _MaryLynn_!"

The blonde woman refused to answer to Connor's questions. She lay in bed, her bare back facing the window. He could see in the darkness that her body shivered. What was wrong? What had he done for her to refuse him entry?

"Come down from there. She won' listen to you _or_ me."

The voice from below was raspy and heavy with a Scottich accent. Looking down, Connor found Madam standing there, her hands placed on her round, plump hips. Sighing in frustration, he climbs down the building, hoping to gain answers from the older woman.

"I know you come through the window, lad," she says, her voice softening.

"I do not doubt that. You have not actively protested against me since my first visit. Why is this so?"

"I usually don' take kindly to 'suitors' coming to my brothel, botherin' my girls after their shifts are done and over with. However.."

Madam softens up, her hands leaving her hips.

"You seem to make tha' girl happy. So, I figured what the hell."

"Why won't she let me in? What has happened? Is she still ill?"

"_Ill_? Ah _bullocks_, she didn' tell you..." sighed Madam, shaking her head.

"Tell me what? What is it you speak of?"

She sighs deeply once more, rubbing her eyes. This wasn't going to be easy, since the young man was clearly alarmed.

"Lad, she was two months pregnant…And the baby didn' make it."

Beyond silenced, Connor's eyes widened, his lips agape. He looked away to the side, his lips thinning as he tried to stifle his emotions. Why didn't she just tell him? Why did she lie? Who was the father? '_I'll kill him,'_ he thought with vengeance. Connor began to pace back and forth.

"I see you're mad, but it's not called for," Madam said.

"She lied to me when I asked her what was wrong," Connor argued, his pacing having stopped. "She had told me that she was ill. Why couldn't she trust me?"

"This has nothin' to do with you, boy! She was scared out o' her wits, and the last thing she needs is an angry man demandin' answer after answer from her. Only she and I knew, no one else. Now, I'll ask you straight out: Are you the father?"

"No…No, I am not. I have never been…_intimate_…with her."

The idea of being a father left the Native assassin uncomfortable and suddenly ill.

"I didn' think you were. It would be rather _quiet_ when you would visit anyway. "

"You listened in?" he asked, bothered by the fact that the older woman would eavesdrop on their conversations.

"I _am_ the madam of this brothel," she asserted, stepping up to Connor despite the height difference. "I supervise _all_ my girls."

"I understand," he mutters, his anger wavering.

"Come on, I'll take you inside," Madam offers. "Maybe you can talk some sense into her. Poor thing jus' found out last week tha' she had a miscarriage. She refuses to come out of bed now."

Leading the Native assassin into the Maverick, Madam ascends the small steps to the front door, opening it to enter the brothel. Connor followed the older woman with a respectful distance. Passing through the narrow entrance hall, he was greeted by the disturbing pressed flowers hanging on the walls. He never did enjoy those herbal corpses. How were they supposed to convey a welcoming feeling? It all just seemed disturbing to him.

Madam stops at the bottom of the staircase that led to the bedrooms upstairs. There was the same rickety podium, positioned on the left side of the staircase. A quill saluted the ceiling atop the podium.

Swallowing hard, Connor tightens his fists by his sides. With all his might, he tries to remain level-headed.

"Does she know who the father is?"

"Oohh, nev'r ask tha' here. Sometimes contraceptives don' work, and a woman gets pregnant. In this line of work, how can a girl honestly know who fathered the child? And don' go thinkin' you'll figure it out. I see that anger in you. You wan' to beat some bastard to a pulp. Well, get in line, because I'll beat you to it. However, we will never know who the father is.

Some girls choose to kill the baby in privacy. There is no judgmen' here. A woman does with her body what she will, and the rest is none of my concern. But MaryLynn…Christ, she was goin' to keep it."

Connor turned away. Nature took its course when it was deemed necessary. However, the loss of a potential life was a grand loss. He was thankful that the lip of his hood had concealed his eyes. As talented as he was at retaining a neutral facial expression, his dark eyes had always given him away.

"Let me see her," he requested, his firm voice having softened.

"Alright," Madam sighs, figuring that if no one else could get through to her girl, then maybe this young man standing before her could. "I've tried speakin' to her. I've lived this common tragedy before. She won' speak or move, and, quite frankly, no woman would wan' to talk to anyone after somethin' like this."

Madam leans her elbow onto the podium where written schedules were kept.

"She jus' stares at the walls. Maybe you can snap her out of this."

Connor nods his head, his hands folded before him. In this moment, he could feel the crucifix MaryLynn had given him against his skin more than usual. It was always tucked underneath his military shirt. It was in times of stress when he could feel the cold silver and smooth onyx beads against his copper skin more than usual. It was something that she had worn, as if she were present every time he felt the necklace.

He began to ascend the staircase. Once he reached the second to last step, Madam's throaty voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You're _clearly_ not the father. Why do you care for her so much, dearie?"

She was being serious, no trace of threat or sarcasm detected. She wanted to know why this Native man made it his business if MaryLynn was not well, mentally _and_ physically.

He could not answer the older woman right away. The wrinkles framing her small brown eyes and her terse lips had alluded to how much stress she underwent, despite what she allowed people to see. He squeezed the banister of the staircase, refusing to turn around and look at Madam. The emotions were not difficult to experience. In fact, they overpowered his ability to speak. Why must emotions be communicated verbally? Why can't emotions just be manifested into living things? Pictures, even? That was how his people had communicated their emotions, through paint and craftwork and etchings into material. Some things were better shown rathe than spoken of. Talking about every little thing tugging at his heartstrings was something Connor was not comfortable with at all.

However, he would give it his best try. At least _try_.

"She said you were a private one, dear," Madam said, having mercy on the quiet young man. "I'm trustin' you. She's my girl in more ways than one."

Ascending the rest of the staircase to the top, Connor finally turns around, his gaze hesitant from beneath his hood, but unafraid nonetheless.

"I will honor your wishes," he says in a deep, clear voice.

The hallway was thankfully not as narrow as the entry hallway downstairs. Instead of dead, pressed flowers hanging on the walls, there were paintings of lush gardens and velvet drapes hanging on the wood tiled walls. The place needed a serious dusting, but other than that it was nicely decorated. He was able to discern MaryLynn's bedroom easily, picturing where her window would be located outside the building.

Standing before her bedroom door, he knocked three times on the hard surface.

No answer. He knocked three more times. Finally, a weak, monotone voice called out.

"Go away."

"MaryLynn, open this door. It's Connor."

"Leave me alone."

"MaryLynn, I am not leaving until I speak with you. Open this door, please."

She refused to answer or even open the door.

Vexed by her behavior, he sighed deeply from his throat. He tries to turn the knob, but found it to be rigid. Locked. He resorted to picking the lock. Retrieving the proper tools from one of his belt pouches, Connor begins working on the lock by inserting the first slim metal tool. Once he found a clicking "sweet spot" within the lock, he inserted the second tool, which was shorter in length than the first. A couple of hard slams of the tools had granted him access to the bedroom, the door creaking as it opened. It was pitch black inside, the only source of light coming from the window. His eyes adjusted as best as they could to the darkness, making out a silhouette lying down in the bed.

MaryLynn lay on her side, her back facing him once again. She must have known that Connor would eventually break in, changing her position in bed. On closer inspection, he could see that her shoulders, arms, and collarbone were bare and exposed. The rest of her body was concealed beneath the ivory sheets. He gulped at the sight, trying to remember that she was not fully exposed. Now was not the time to worry over her lack of clothing.

As he walked over to the bed with heavy footsteps, the blonde woman uttered in a throaty voice, "Why won't you leave me be?"

"I will not leave you until you are content enough to sleep."

He now stood over her body, his white hood casting a deep shadow over half of his face.

"Why didn't you trust me enough to tell me that you were with child?"

"It's my business," she spat, pulling the sheets closer over her nude body. She refused to show her face, but her voice had given her emotions away.

"Have I not trusted you with my troubles? Why can't you do the same in return?"

MaryLynn peeked over her shoulders, blonde curls covering her eyes.

"This is not about you. I didn't want to talk about it. I tried to be brave. Now look what my so called bravery has brought me."

Her head returns to facing the windows, a dry sob erupting her body. Madam's words rang true. The blonde woman was frightened, and speaking of such things would have made her feel worse. Connor felt slightly guilty. He only wanted her to trust him, to come to him when she needed him. He did not mean to push her. However, to see her so devastated…he could not bear it. His eyebrows furrowed as his eyes began to sting. What could he possibly do?

"C-Connor," she spoke again, her sobs breaking up her words. "I don't…wa-ant you…to…see me…th-this wa-ay."

Pulling up a spare chair to the bedside, Connor sits down, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward toward MaryLynn.

"I will leave when you are able to pluck my body from this chair and throw me out yourself."

The mentioning of this impossible feat had evoked a response from her. She slowly rolled over onto her other side, facing Connor with a tear stained face. Her eyes were bloodshot, as red as the eyes of a white rabbit. They appeared swollen from excessive crying. The bedsheets still covered her body from her collarbone and down. Her arms lay over the bedsheets, tangled blonde curls slightly brushing her shoulders. MaryLynn felt humiliated facing her dear friend in this state. She failed to retain a growing child inside her body. And now here she was, refusing to see the light of day and locking out every person who banged on her bedroom door. She hated looking like a child in front of him.

The millisecond he met her weeping eyes, the Native assassin experienced a dull pain in his chest. Empathy.

_'She would have been a kind mother,'_ thought Connor, his head bowing slowly. An image of the blonde woman with a rosy cheeked infant danced into his mind like a pleasantly calm minuet. He envisioned her laughing, joyous to hold the mot beautiful symbol of life in her arms. Subconsciously, he imagined the infant bearing darker skin than the mother's. _'She would have been the perfect mother.'_

"I couldn't keep it," she whispered between sobs, her blue eyes wide and glistening with fresh tears. "My body k-killed it. I'm a failure. I'm st-stained, a sinner, that's why I couldn't k-keep it be-because I wasn't good enough!"

She sobbed heavily into her pillow, her body shaking violently. Connor pulled down his hood, his dark eyes and downturned mouth revealing his own sorrow for the blonde woman. _'How can she speak of herself in such ways? She did nothing wrong. She gave this new life a chance.'_

"You are not to blame. Understand that. This life was not meant to be, and nature had to take its course. Sometimes nature intervenes when it deems the action appropriate."

"Nature is cruel," she growled, wiping her eyes and cheeks with the sheets.

"I know," he sighs, his voice barely audible, knowing all too well how nature can leave one stranded and confused at times.

Whenever a pregnancy failed, his village would bury the remains of the fetus in a ceremony. Even an unborn life was still honored and wished all the luck and love for that life force to reach the Sky World in peace. He did not know if the blonde woman would allow him to, but Connor wondered if a prayer in Mohawk would ease the woman's sorrow over her lost child.

"MaryLynn, I can pray for your child's life force if you wish."

"L-life force?" she stutters, sniffling as she rested her head into the pillow.

"I believe you call it a 'soul.' In my village, we honor the life force of a deceased fetus. It is still valuable despite not being born. If I may...I can pray in my native tongue for your child to find peace."

"Can you?" she questioned, her voice quiet as a gentle breeze. "I want it to find Heaven."

"Of course I can. I may have to place my hand on your stomach since this is where it shared life with you. Is this alright?"

"Yes."

He did not want to mention the remains of the fetus, in fear of upsetting the blonde woman even further. Touching her stomach and praying was the best that he could do. She seemed to be alleviated by this. Initially hesitant, Connor places his open palm onto MaryLynn's lower stomach, his hand molding over the roundness of her belly. He closes his eyes, and begins a relaxing rhythm of breathing to focus his mind. In a deep, clear voice, he prays softly in Mohawk to wish this child a safe journey to the Sky World.

"_I pray that this life force, this precious being that has not experienced this physical plane, will find peace and allow the Faceless One to guide it to the Sky World. Find peace, for you are well protected by the spirits." _******

His heart began to race once his focus was broken. He had never spoken in his native tongue in front of MaryLynn before. Slowly opening his eyes, his vision was met with a tranquil expression on the blonde woman's face. Her tears had ceased their shedding. Her eyes were clear and bright as ever. Her breath was very shallow, passing through slightly parted lips.

"MaryLynn? Are you alright?" inquired Connor, his heated palm still melded over her stomach.

"Connor…Was that your mother tongue?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Yes. I prayed that your child would find peace in the Sky World, or Heaven as you call it. It is safe and well protected. It will find peace."

Just as Connor was removing his hand from her stomach, MaryLynn gently took hold his hand. Her touch was delicate, shaking slightly from the rattling of her previous sobbing.

"I-I.." she begins to speak, trying to ease herself. "I know y-you're not one for physical cont-tact, but.."

MaryLynn breathes in deeply, exhaling in shivers. The sobs were smoothed out, allowing her to speak coherently.

"Can you hold my hand until I fall asleep?" the blonde woman finally manages to ask of him.

Her wide eyes. Her quivering rosy lips. Her unoccupied hand grasping the bedsheets like a final lifeline. They were all like an antique glass menagerie, lovely to view upon but utterly morbid to watch shatter in the eruption of a quake. MaryLynn was the broken menagerie on display for Connor to see, and she worked through being honest in her vulnerability.

The somber expression upon Connor's face had nearly mirrored her own face. To her surprise, the Native assassin immediately, gently squeezes her hand to communicate that he would hold her hand until she was thieved of him by unconsciousness. The contract of her small, pale hand in his large, copper hand was more than noticeable, but the unity was beautiful enough to blur the differences.

For a man that was skilled in killing, he possessed the most healing touch she had ever experienced.

"Thank you," she whispers, her sorrow beginning to fade away in the palm of his hand.

"Always," he mumbles, breaking eye contact for a moment to take in her gratitude.

She moans, the tempting touch of slumber pulling her into a deep sleep. The pillow had never felt so comfortable before until now. As her vision began to blur, the final thing she saw before she fell asleep was Connor's vigilant, meaningful gaze. She smiled lazily, her eyelids sealed shut.

"Never stop being my angel."

He smirks morbidly, looking away. _'I am not an angel. You're delusional.'_

* * *

Eyes burn like cinders from beneath her lids as she leaves the numb reality of her dreams. To move her eyes behind her lids had hurt, a dull sting experienced. MaryLynn frowned deeply at the sting as she forced herself to open her eyes.

The soft golden light streaming from her window developed from a blob of light in her vision to the image of the rising sun. So, a new day _had come_ after all.

Groaning softly, MaryLynn rolls onto her back to carefully sit up. She was still groggy from the deep sleep. She could have sworn that she had just closed her eyes for a moment, only to awaken with the sun. Heavy hooded eyes drift to the side to find Connor still in his chair, sleeping with his arms crossed and his head hanging low. A muffled snore emitted from his large body.

He had stayed all night. He had promised to leave when MaryLynn fell asleep, but he had extended his promise to staying the entire night for her. 'He must be exhausted," she thought. 'If only he would ask for a blanket or a pillow, that poor, stubborn man.'

Her heart was still heavy with sorrow. Her body still felt too heavy to lift. Depression had these effects on the body. The blonde woman could easily go back to sleep and bury herself in the sheets to hide from the new day. She could ask herself, "Why get up?" Nothing was different. She still felt lost.

However, watching Connor sleep had granted her the ability to see a light in the seemingly omnipresent darkness. The Native assassin had loyally sat by her bedside until she stopped crying and fell asleep. He had spoken beautifully in his native tongue a prayer of protection and peace, just for the unborn child. He did not have to do this, but he chose to.

He once came to her after a battle a broken man. She granted him the same peace he had granted her in this time of need. And he had _**gotten back up. **_He continued to fight, even when he was exhausted; close to giving everything up. He had rose to his feet just as the sun rose to each new day. Resurrect the spirit, just as the universe resurrects the sun.

The Native assassin had taught her perseverance.

'You are not stained,' MaryLynn thought to herself as she stared at the inspiration sleeping before her. 'You live because you have a purpose. Just because it was not meant to be, does not mean that you should stop _**living**_!'

And then a revelation hit her like a tidal wave crashing onto the crisp white sand.

Never stop living. Never stop trying.

If people like Madam and Connor cared for her when she did not care for herself, then life was worth living. To stop living would only hurt the people that gave a damn about her, believed in her when she refused to believe in herself. She had to get up. She had to get up and try another chance at life. This was not the end, and it wouldn't be for a long time. She will learn to live for herself. To stop living would be spitting on the death of her unborn child. If _it_…If _she _could not live, then MaryLynn had to try and live the beauty of life for this child.

'For you,' the words smoothed over in her mind like a lullaby as she filled her heart with love, not sorrow. 'For you, I will live.'

Easing out of bed, MaryLynn makes her way in the nude to her dresser, the pads of her feet sliding over the wooden floor. A crisp white blouse, a dark gray bodice, and a faded emerald skirt with a creamy petticoat underneath. She worked through the tangles in her golden hair with her fingers as she gazed into the looking glass on her vanity desk. Her eyes were still slightly swollen from last night's sobbing. Her fingers left her hair as they smoothed around her eyes gingerly.

"You'll be alright," MaryLynn whispered, patting the tender skin around her eyes.

Fully dressed and prepared, the blonde woman quietly makes her way to the bedroom door to start her day with chores. Before she could even touch the doorknob, Connor voice's slithered through the air with a rasp.

"Where are you going?"

He was awake? Was he even sleeping before?

"I'm starting my day, Connor," she calmly answers, turning around to see that Connor had begun to turn around in his chair to look at her.

She appeared different from last night. She stopped crying. She did not lie in bed like a helpless rag doll forgotten by her beloved owner. MaryLynn was fully dressed and standing her full height, looking him directly in the eyes. No tears. No fears.

"Are you alright?" he asks, clearing his throat as he stood up from his seat.

Her eyes shift down to the floor for a moment, mulling over her honest to God answer.

"Not really," she admits, looking back into Connor's concerned gaze. "However, that does not mean I should pity myself, and neither should you."

She takes a step or two closer to him, her gentle gaze refusing to falter.

"I may not know how to live this life, but I am going to try and live it, even if I am sad. I can do this. I've told you from the beginning that I don't need a savior, and I never will. But your friendship…what you showed me in the past and last night has shown me how to draw in strength, even when I don't believe I have any left. Your friendship has shown me just that. You stood up; so can I. Thank you, Connor. Always."

And that was when Connor saw her true potential. She was brave. He believed in the spirit of people just a little bit more as he watched his dear friend transform from a broken child to a soaring woman. And all she asked of him was his friendship, nothing more. His heart beat just a little bit faster, just a little bit harder for MaryLynn Mortenson.

He stared at her with admiration, a smile sneaking past his vigilance and onto his full lips. This expression was nothing like MaryLynn had ever seen on his face before. Did he have the slightest idea how lovely he was when he smiled? Truly smiled?

"Wh-what is it?" she questions him, somewhat bashful in his presence all of a sudden.

"Umm," he chokes out, the smile vanishing. "Nothing. I'm happy that you are well. I did not doubt your will, not once."

She smiles warmly at his behavior change. He was so frantic sometimes, especially when he caught himself smiling. She understood why, and that was ok with her.

"Thank you. In more ways than one."

"You're welcome. Always."

"I'm going to start on my chores for the day. You're welcome to stay if you want."

"I cannot," Connor declines her offer graciously. "I don't wish to irritate Madam any further by extending my stay."

"Did she give you more trouble?"

"No, she did not. She cares for you, that is all. I can respect that very much. I must leave for the homestead, anyway."

"If you say so."

The blonde woman backtracks to the door, her hand reaching for the knob, Her fingers sail over the cool metal before bidding Connor goodbye.

"Goodbye, Connor, Travel safely."

"I will, thank you. I will leave through the window so as not to raise suspicion."

"I think after last night you have already raised suspicion."

He smirked at her comment.

"No worries," says MaryLynn. "Madam is trustworthy."

Connor nods his head. He does not understand why he does not wish to stop staring at the woman before him. Unspoken words had burned on his lips and his tongue. He could not bring himself to say the words. What were the words? What did he crave to say to her? He gave up trying, and instead bid her goodbye.

"I will see you soon, then?" he says.

"Yes. I will be here."

"Goodbye, MaryLynn."

"Goodbye, Connor. Thank you, again and again."

MaryLynn opened the door and exited her bedroom, smiling one last time in his direction before closing the said door. Connor sighed aloud, his shoulders hunched forward. Staring at the closed door, he pictured her warm, light-inspiring smile in his mind as the words he yearned to say escaped his lips.

"_Konnorónhkwa." ++_

Alas, she would not hear his voice, the moment long gone in the sands of time.

* * *

_Later That Day_

MaryLynn locates Madam in the backyard, hanging bedsheets and blouses on a line to dry in the afternoon sun. Two pins were firmly held between her lips. Standing at the open doorway, MaryLynn wrung her hands together nervously. This would not be an easy announcement to make, especially to the woman who took her under her wing. However, the time was calling for her to make the next transition in her life. She had to heed the call to take a risk.

"Madam?" the blonde woman called out, one foot stepping past the threshold.

"Mmhmmm?" hummed the older woman, the pins still between her lips as she hung up a sheet.

'Now or never,' thought MaryLynn, rubbing the leather bracelet as she made her way to the laundry line. The sunlight was slightly harsh on her skin. She could feel her cheeks and chest heating up. However, her nerves might also be the culprits of this sudden warmth. Who knows?

Once the pins were gone from her lips, Madam said, "I know you're standin' there dearie. Speak."

Ceasing the rubbing of her bracelet, the blonde woman stood on the opposite side of the laundry line, the sheet concealing her face and body from Madam.

"It's good to see you out and about," Madam spoke again, disliking the silence. "I'm guessin' tha' Connor must've said somethin' righ'?"

"Yes," MaryLynn attested to the assumption. "However, it was your words that rang true as well, Madam…on the day that I found out about my pregnancy."

"I don' recall half of wha' I say. Hopefully, I said somethin' good," the older woman chuckled.

"You did. All morning, I have been thinking hard about what I'm about to tell you."

At that moment, Madam pulled away the sheet that separated them, looking her in the eye with her brows raised.

"Madam…you are the world to me…but I think…I think it's time for me to move on."

A moment or two passed before Madam smiled warmly, her eyes looking down to the verdant grass beneath her. She nodded, her red curls bopping up and down. MaryLynn did not understand the older woman's reaction until she had explained why she smiled so widely.

"I had a feelin' tha' you would come to this. Your life is meant to be lived _out there_, not _stuck here_. Come with me, let's talk, you and I.."

* * *

**: This was tricky to write in because to find Mohawk or even Iroquois/Haudenosaunee views on miscarriages was tough. The best that I could gather from research is that the unborn child is still viewed as a living being with a Life Force (soul), therefore it is honored after death. The remains would be buried like a full grown body, but again, this is very brief. Native American ceremonies are special and kept private from anyone outside of the heritage, so I doubt finding an exact ceremony would be easy. If anyone has further information on this topic, please let me know. I do not wish to be inaccurate and insult anyone. I tried my best and thought of what Connor would do, since he _does_ pray for his deceased targets to reach the Sky World and be at peace in the actual game.

++: _Konnorónhkwa _is Mohawk for, **"I love you"** (loose translation into English). An exact translation would be, **"I show you I care."**

* * *

**Author's Note:** Two chapters. One update. How 'bout them apples? I ended up writing quite a lot. I wanted to get through writing these battle scenes because writing lines from the game isn't something I'm thrilled about (but it's part of the story), so I try to add my own flavor here and there with dialogue and insight. I guess I pushed myself a lot, ha ha.

Anyway, things are going to be nice in the next chapter. It's a big step for MaryLynn, and I can assure you she will be happy in the next few chapters. Connor is developing as well, I'm happy that he is coming out of his shell (even if he goes right back in his shell once in a while).

The last two songs I provided, _"Resurrect the Sun"_ by **Black Veil Brides** and _"Try"_ by **P!nk**, are very special to me and inspiring in the darkest of times. These characters have been through a lot, and I felt that these songs truly captured certain moments. So, I hope you look them up and listen for a few minutes to get a better feel for the characters' emotions. Shout out to **KathDMD** who completely understands my love of combining writing and music! They go hand in hand! :D Thanks for inspiring me, Kath. :)

Thank you for all your support, everyone. I hope two new updates show you how much I appreciate your support and encouragement. I love to entertain people through my writing. You are lovely and the messages are a delight to read! I hope these two chapters entertain you.

~take care


	12. Another Suitcase In Another Hall

**Chapter 11: Another Suitcase In Another Hall**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, the Maverick brothel, and Audrey (The woman from an early chapter who tried to seduce Connor into her bedroom. "Now they're climbing buildings for that woman!")_

_Italics: _Memories and native tongue.

_Please Note: _As I was playing some naval missions on AC3 the other day, I accessed the information files to get some ideas for upcoming chapters. I had looked up Surry's file and did not realize that "he" was a "she." I do apologize for this! I have a male Surry imbedded into my mind, unfortunately, so I do hope that you will accept a genderbent Surry!

* * *

Eva:_ Call in three months time and I'll be fine, I know_

_Well maybe not that fine, but I'll survive anyhow_

_I won't recall the names and places of each sad occasion_

_But that's no consolation here and now._

Eva_: So what happens now?_

Che_: (Another suitcase in another hall)_

_Eva: So what happens now?_

Che_: (Take your picture off another wall)_

Eva_: Where am I going to?_

Che_: (You'll get by, you always have before)_

Eva:_ Where am I going to?_

Huevo:_ Don't ask anymore.._

- _"Another Suitcase In Another Hall"_ from the musical **"EVITA"**

* * *

"Get the basket, will you, dear? My back is killin' me," Madam requested, rubbing the lower section of her back in circles. "Laundry should be dry in a while."

MaryLynn abided by the older woman's request, picking up the large wicker basket from the grass. The crisp white sheets and blouses swayed in the afternoon breeze so gently, tempted to break free of their confines to fly up and away into the vast periwinkle heavens above.

With a pudgy hand, Madam motioned a wave for MaryLynn to follow her to the pair of outdoor chairs settled near the back door. Abandoning the wicker basket at the open door, the blonde woman eased herself down into the chair beside Madam, who was already flapping her hand up and down to create some cooling relief. Her cheeks were red, having no pigmentation in her Scottish flesh whatsoever except for a deep pink hue from the heat. Her breathing was slightly heavy, but she managed to regain a steady rhythm as she composed herself in the cool shade. She stretched out her limbs as far as they would reach, her eyes tightly sealed as she moaned. A crack or two was audible from her bones.

"Aahh, _Christ_. Tha' felt good," the older woman moans. "I'm so goddamn old."

MaryLynn chuckled lightly, shaking her head as she lazily tilted her head up towards the skies to bask in the warm afternoon sun. It was only in the sun's radiance that any worry gnawing away her at brain would vanish like desperate shadows scurrying to escape the emergence of dawn.

"So," breathed Madam aloud, "how long did you think abou' this? All mornin', you had said?"

The blonde woman nods, lowering her head. The full blonde waves shift and bounce with the motion. Ever since she had stopped her services at the brothel due to her condition, MaryLynn had allowed her hair to grow out. The curls had begun to uncoil into waves, stopping just a brush above her shoulders. It felt quite odd having more hair, she had to admit. It had fallen differently, as well as molded differently after a fitful night of slumber. Nonetheless, it would be a nice thing to experiment with since she had not had longer hair in years.

"Over ten years in the business, and one mornin' has brough' you to the decision to move on. I'm not insultin' you, dearie, but I'm jus' curious. How long have you been feelin' like it's time to go? Have you planned out where to stay and where to earn money?"

MaryLynn began to wring her small hands, feeling the leather bracelet digging into the tender flesh of her inner wrists. The uncomfortable sensation did not bother her, for she was preoccupied with understanding how to verbalize her ever staggering emotions. She looks down at her fingernails, seeing that they have grown longer as well. A useless observation. Just a mere distraction from the present moment.

"I knew for some time that my purpose here was coming to an end. Knowing about the baby…" she pauses for a moment, swallowing hard, "…then losing it forced me to truly evaluate my life. You have done so much for me, and my only wish is to repay you somehow. I feel so guilty over my planning of leaving this brothel. I feel as if I cannot repay you at all. What do I have that is even of some worth compared to you saving my life?"

"Don' you feel any sort o' guilt. Guilt is a _waste of time_. Say, I could go for some whiskey righ' abou' now. Mind fetchin' some before we continue this?"

"I don't mind at all. I need some myself!" the blonde woman laughed apprehensively, grateful for the suggestion.

Rushing into the kitchen, the air humid and hot, MaryLynn retrieved a stout whiskey bottle from one of the higher up shelves near the spice rack. She was required to climb up on the counter in order to reach the prized bottle. Ah ha, the climbing of furniture never fails as MaryLynn grasped the bottle's thick neck. A triumphant smiles tugs at the corners of her rosy lips as she carefully climbs down with the prize. The blonde woman rushes back outside, handing Madam the bottle before sitting back down in her seat. Madam pops open the cork, keeping the small object hostage in her pudgy palm. She savored a quick swig of the strong golden liquid, breathing out roughly before relinquishing it to her best girl. In the same fashion, MaryLynn quickly gulps the liquor, the burn so sweet and painful simultaneously. It was a pleasant relief as the burn danced further down her throat.

"Anyway, as I was sayin'…I took you in when you were a tiny thing, pickin' at table scraps from the streets and in desperate need o' meat and some hearty potatoes. And I did it because I wanted to. I don' usually take in every poor unfortunate soul. I'm no ones hero. Never was, never will. I look out for myself. Sometimes, you've got to let people fall and look after yourself.

And yet, tha' look in your eyes as you looked up at me when I passed by those ol' food crates…You still had some fire inside you, even when livin' the way you did was spirit-damangin'. Even today, tha' fire ne'er wen' out. Tha' fire needs to be kept alive by livin' out there in the world. You won' discover your true self here in this place. You're not bitter. You don' compete for the hell of it so you can stroke your damn ego. You_ love_ people, and haven' got a mean bone in your body. After seein' you recover the way you did after losin' the baby, even findin' out tha' there _was_ a baby…I know tha' you have what it takes to live a full life, MaryLynn."

With a second helping of whiskey, MaryLynn's eyes began to well with tears. She never thought that her heart would survive one tragedy after another. From her perspective, the only way to survive was to work diligently in loving the world instead of hating it. To hear someone so significant to her say that she was strong, capable of living a full life was enough to bring her to tears. This was common for the past week or so. She cried at certain words and memories, catching people off guard with the sudden onset of emotion.

This rugged, secretly affectionate older woman was going to be missed most of all. The blonde woman forced away her tears, sucking in air and wiping away any stray tears.

"How will I live without you?" she mutters, her voice quiet and childlike in tone.

"Silly girl, you don' need me! Quit hoggin' tha' bottle, by the way."

MaryLynn surrenders the bottle, a small smile on her lips. Nursing the bottle for a moment, Madam continues.

"You got out o' bed all by yourself. You decide to make a difference in your life when others would jus' roll over and take it up the arse. It wasn' me _or_ Connor who did this. _You_ did all tha'. You're more than ready, dearie."

She settles the bottle down onto the flimsy wooden armrest, her fingers still clamped around the neck of the bottle. The older woman stared absentmindedly at the golden liquor swishing about in the dark glass.

"Where do you plan on stayin'? When are you leavin'?"

"I have to settle that part of the plan. I am sending a letter tonight to make some negotiations."

Madam chuckles, the reverberations causing the bottle to shiver.

"So when's Connor comin' to pick you up? The window or the door this time?"

"I have not said anything about him!"

"You know, you can be bright. And then, you go lame on me as if no brains are in tha' head o' yours. It's not hard to figure out. He seems like tha' generous type o' lad. Besides, he cares for you. He woudn' take 'no' for an answer when he demanded to see why you were upset. I doubt he'd be content with you livin' in an inn. Where does he live now?"

"On a homestead community."

"He's not livin' in one o' those villages those Natives usually live?"

"No. He stays with an older gentleman named Achilles. He was the one to train Connor over the years, and so he decided to stay with the old man."

"So Achilles taught tha' boy how to fight the way he does? Must be more dangerous than he looks, even as an old man."

"I wouldn't know," she admits, her blue eyes beginning to brighten when she goes on to describe the community to Madam. "Anyway, they run the community together, gathering people up to come live and prosper. They even find work there as well. Connor told me that they have a physician, a seamstress, some craftsmen. There's even a church being built! I'm most excited over that."

"I'm sure you are. Communities such as tha' tend to be quiet. Closer to the woods. Is there somethin' you can do there to make a livin'? Don' _ever_ be in debt with a man, even if he is a kind one."

"Well, yes. However, I don't think the women would be very happy about what I specialize in."

The pair of women laugh aloud, imagining the hilarious scandal unfold in a quiet community.

"Fine, so sex is out o' the question. Next?"

"I can keep the manor clean. Connor lives in Achilles' manor, and he often says that the place tends to get dirty easily with Achilles getting older and Connor constantly away in his missions."

"You could do tha'. Honest work. Make sure you are paid. Don' do it for free, you hear me?"

"Yes, Madam," MaryLynn sighs, growing weary of the older woman's nagging.

"Good. You'll help me with the chores and the schedulin' o' the girls until you leave."

MaryLynn nods eagerly, willing to do anything to earn her stay until she officially leaves the brothel. She is quiet for a moment, running her fingertips over the white beads of the leather bracelet.

"Madam?" the blonde woman says, her voice still quiet and brimming with emotion.

"Wha' is it, dearie?" Madam responds, sipping from the whiskey bottle.

"Thank you. For everything. I wouldn't be here without you."

"MaryLynn, don' start cryin' on me now. You'll make me drink even more! Here, have some whiskey. It'll chase away those tears," Madam hands the bottle over to the blonde woman, insisting she drink a little more of the hard liquor. "Jus' go and live your life. That'll be thanks enough, believe me. Now c'mon, let's get the laundry from the line."

The whiskey bottle was left behind on MaryLynn's seat once she thieved one last helping. Once the pair of women make their way over to the laundry line, the older woman warns MaryLynn of one of the other women working in the brothel. This particular woman did not take too kindly to MaryLynn over the years, especially when her room was given away to her.

"Watch out for Audrey. She'll be snifflin' abou' to get her old room back. Don' be surprised if you catch her measurin' the window frame for curtains in your bedroom."

MaryLynn nodded slowly. The raven haired, green eyed woman was a little older than she, and rougher around the edges. She was once the top prostitute in Boston until MaryLynn worked her way up the ranks. She never meant to start a rivalry, but this was how Audrey perceived the success. Snide remarks would progress for two years until finally she resorted to ignoring the blonde woman's existence altogether. MaryLynn wished that she and Audrey could just friends instead. Alas, the competition was more appetizing to the other woman than some measly friendship.

She could not do anything about this, and she had accepted that not everyone would want to accept her hand in generosity. This was the real world, after all, and not everyone was willing to give love a chance instead of hate. 'It is what it is,' thought MaryLynn. 'I can't change her, just as she cannot change me.'

* * *

_Dear Connor,_

_I want to thank you first and foremost for your support. I couldn't have asked for anything more in a friend. _

_I am writing to you in need of your help. No worries, I am well, so do not think that I am in danger or ill. Do you recall an offer of yours from about two years ago? You had asked me to live with you on the homestead. I had sullenly declined the offer, for at the time I was not ready for such a big change. _

_At this time, I feel that I am ready to move on from my role here at the Maverick. The pregnancy and miscarriage forced me to mull over how I want to spend the rest of my life. _

_Should you accept, I promise to earn my stay until I acquire a home of my own. I can clean, do laundry, decently cook (and I say that lightly, I'm afraid), tend to gardens. I'm also a good listener, which I am sure you know._

_I hope you accept. I do not require much to be comfortable. I can care for the manor while you are away, and even keep Achilles company (If he likes me, that is. I hope he does!). If not, I understand and will not take offense. _

_Please write back as soon as you receive this letter. _

_Thank you with all my heart. _

_Yours Truly, _

_MaryLynn Mortenson_

The handwritten script had been thin and tight, the loops extending dramatically outward from the smaller letters. Before her performance at the Green Dragon, MaryLynn had sat down at her vanity desk to write Connor a letter. She allowed the ink to dry for a moment once she signed her name, plopping the quill into the ink jar that she had borrowed from Madam. Pursing her lips into an "O" shape, she blows onto the parchment to accelerate the drying of the ink. Once the ink was dry, the blonde woman felt anxious over folding the parchment. She did not feel comfortable asking for favors, especially when Connor had his own responsibilities to fret over. An alternative plan was concocted should he decline. Work at the Green Dragon. Earn a room to sleep in. Still perform with Surry.

However, she knew that Connor's words would affect her. He had that ability to either fluff her mood or shatter her mood. MaryLynn hated this sort of vulnerability. It was this kind of intimacy that she had avoided at all costs simply because of the vulnerability that came with the territory. Once the letter was folded nice and tightly, her self-esteem would be an open wound for anyone to tamper with and hurt her. The risk had to be taken if it meant happiness would follow.

Inhaling sharply through her nostrils, MaryLynn folds the parchment over and over until she obtained a neat little square. She then tied the parchment shut with a cord string, a double knot bulging in the very center.

There. It was ready.

Turning around in her seat to look out the window, MaryLynn saw that the skies were a deep navy blue. When she had first sat down to compose the letter, the sun had just begun to set. From experience, she knew that her performance at the Green Dragon was due. So what if she was late? It was not uncommon for her to show up late. This letter was more important to her, even if it sounded foolish.

The blonde woman thought it best to give the letter to one of Connor's allies. She was going to see if, after tonight's performance, Surry could locate Sam Adams and bring her to him. Sometimes the statesman would escort the young slave back home, and other times it would be Sam's wife, Elizabeth, and their eldest son accompanying her to escort him. If anyone knew of the best way to reach Connor, it was the statesman.

She could earn herself a room at the Green Dragon, but, as the thought settled into her mind over the past few days, the idea seemed too painful. Too many people knew her. Too many questions would be asked. She had to start off this transition in life with a blank slate. And being so close to the Maverick would only hurt her. Perhaps this was influenced by the increase in workload at the tavern. For the past two months, MaryLynn had put her prostitution services aside and began to sing at the Green Dragon more often to compensate for this. It was exhausting, but she had pulled through.

However, Madam would quarrel with the owners of the tavern over the profits. Which nights' earnings would go to the tavern and which would go to the brothel? The blonde woman felt immensely guilty, leading to the conclusion that this alternate plan would not be best. She had faith that she would locate another place of business in the city. There were much more taverns than just this particular one.

She did find singing much more preferable than sex, if one could believe it! Her body could actually relax, and the feigning of an exaggeration of her sensuality was not as draining. Sex was not exhilarating to MaryLynn after working as a prostitute all these years, and it had not been enjoyable in a long time. It was a chore, not a pleasure like it should be.

Why cheat herself of this ecstasy if there was a way out of this lifestyle? Maybe she could find a way to enjoy sex again, on her own terms. Maybe a man could do exactly as SHE demanded so that she was satisfied. Perhaps she could actually have a an actual orgasm instead of feigning the bodily explosion of sensation.

Smoothing out her hair, MaryLynn stood up from her seat at the vanity desk. Taking the folded letter and tucking it into her bodice, she prepared to leave for what may be her final performance. No one should know about this. If she never came back, then let people talk and conjure up their own fruitful stories. She did not care. What she _did_ care for was Surry. She was going to tell him of her plan to leave. It would be hard, but it had to be done. She did not want to see his sad, dark eyes stare back at her. However, the blonde woman had to be honest to her friend and showmate.

"Alright," she sighed to herself, straightening out her black bodice to make sure that the letter did not poke out over her breasts. "Let's go."

* * *

Shortly after the final song, a particularly bittersweet melody, MaryLynn had walked over to Surry's side and leaned over to speak to him in a hushed voice.

"Surry, may I speak with you before you leave?"

"Of course, Merry," he accedes cheerfully, having never lost the habit of phonetically pronouncing her name as "merry." "Mister Adams had told me that he'd be a little late, anyway."

His ears perked up as MaryLynn looked around swiftly for any eavesdroppers. What was going on with this woman tonight?

"Actually, that works out perfectly," MaryLynn continues, her attention returning to Surry. "I must speak with him as well. I'm afraid we must speak outside, where it is more quiet. The matter is private."

"Private, you say?" Surry reiterates. "Oh my, I hope it's not anything bad."

"No, nothing bad. However, it will mean that I won't be here much longer."

"What?!" the young slave spoke louder, rising from his seat at the piano.

"_Hush_!" she whispers forcefully, her hands on his shoulders. "Ease yourself. Let's go outside."

Surry nods, trying to regain his tranquility as he thins out his full lips. The blonde woman's word choices were not exactly smooth; they had suggested something dire. They tried as best as possible to leave the Green Dragon nonchalantly. MaryLynn makes her exit first, while Surry follows a couple of minutes later after he closed the sliding keylid over the ivory keys. It irked him that the keylid was left open when he would arrive with Sam. "That's how the keys get dusty and discolored! This deserves more care," he would declare to himself, adoring any sort of piano he could lay his slim fingers upon.

Outside of the tavern, the pair of friends had leaned against the brick wall away from the front door. Surry tilts his head forward to capture a better look at the blonde woman's heart-shaped face. She was looking ahead into the distance, not focusing on anything in particular.

"What is happening, Merry? This is so sudden."

Nibbling on her lower lip, MaryLynn looks down at her feet. She usually spoke whatever came to mind as if no filter existed in her brain, but this time her words would have to be meaningfully chosen. Kind, short words so that the news was not overly dramatized.

"I know. It sounds sudden and I apologize for that greatly. I was not entirely sure of leaving until yesterday morning. It had been gnawing at the back of my mind for the past couple of months, but I don't think I was ready to acknowledge the need."

She laughs a silent laugh, only air escaping her parted lips in huffs. She embraced herself tightly for comfort, despite the fact that she was perspiring from the heat.

"I'm sorry for telling you abut this in such a sudden manner. You must think I'm awful."

"Not in the slightest. I'm just worried, s'all."

"A few things have happened to me personally, things I don't wish to recall right now, that have forced me to seriously re-evaluate my life. I love singing. I love performing with you and seeing you play the piano every time I step in this old tavern. Yet, I must leave Boston to start a new life. I cannot stay here. I must start over again if I wish to truly start living my life the way I wish."

Surry exhaled deeply, looking away to absorb the information. He knew that the brothel was not an easy business to participate in. He thought of the blonde woman as a class act, and that she deserved so much more, such as having a husband and a family. If this was what his friend wanted to try and obtain, then the young man was more than supportive of her decision to leave.

"Well, if there's an opportunity out there for you, then you should take it with your hands wide open. I've seen that you've been upset for quite some time."

"Am I that transparent?" MaryLynn chuckles, looking away in embarrassment.

"No. It shows in your voice when you sing. There's a melancholy tone even when you perform a cheery tune. Sorry I have not asked you about your mood. I feared making it all worse if I asked persistently."

"Don't apologize for that. I wouldn't have spoken anyway. Connor had to break into my bedroom just to talk me out of a depression."

"He broke in? Why didn't he knock first?"

"Oh no, he did. I told him to go away, and he wouldn't listen. He knew I was upset, and wouldn't leave until I was at least peacefully asleep."

"He sure is a persistent fellow."

"That's a nice way of saying it."

The pair chuckle at the thought of Connor breaking down a door with his large build. The word "no" was simply not in his vocabulary.

"So, where are you going to live?" asks Surry.

"Not too far from here. Well, not next door either. However, I will still be in Massachusetts. I'm waiting on approval first for my stay. That's where this letter comes in."

MaryLynn sticks her fingers into her bodice to fish out the neatly, tightly folded letter. Surry flushes at the cheeks, looking away. She takes note of this and says, "Oh stop. You've seen me tuck money in here before!"

Holding the letter gingerly in her hands, MaryLynn looks down at the said letter as if the words would slither away should she avert her eyes.

"Sam knows about Connor's whereabouts, and I need him to get this letter delivered to him. I know that he is a wanted man in this city, and I don't want this letter finding its way into the wrong hands. I don't want to cause trouble for him."

"Say no more," the young slave chips in with excitement. "Mister Adams would be more than happy to do this favor. Connor has risked a lot to help this city. He is fighting for people's rights, including me. A shame he doesn't receive the thanks he deserves."

"He doesn't do it for the glory, you know that."

"Now what's this I hear about glory?"

Sam Adams had arrived just in time to escort Surry home. A gentle smile greeted the blonde woman.

"Good to see you, MaryLynn. I regret missing your voice this evening."

"You haven't missed much," she tittered. "I'm happy that you are here. I have a letter for Connor, and I need your help delivering it to him in secrecy."

She hands the statesman the letter. He turns it over in his hand for a moment before tucking it away into the breast pocket. 'It's unusually warm,' he mused over the tightly folded letter, smirking. 'Now where has this been? It's awfully small.' He shook his head, chuckling as he shooed away his boyish thoughts.

"You were right to talk to me first about this," Sam approved, nodding his head. "Connor's notoriety is spiking, and information on his whereabouts or his affiliates can hurt his mission and my own, not to mention hurt _you_. I knew you were a bright woman. I will have this delivered tomorrow morning by a trusted messenger. I hope that's alright."

"It's more than alright," the blonde woman assures him, her palms lightly pressed together as if she were praying. "Really, as long as he receives it."

"I'm tempted to ask what this letter regards, but I shall respect your privacy."

"You devilish man!" she shouts, her hands balled at her sides. "Don't you read it!"

Sam laughs heartily at MaryLynn's reaction. Surry chuckled lightly at the woman's exaggerated facial expressions. What was it, a love letter or something? She was too old for such things. Once the laughter died down, Surry regrettably informed Sam on the blonde woman's plan to leave.

"Merry is leaving, Mister Adams," he says, folding his slim hands before him.

"You don't say," says Sam, his expression faltering from its mischievous cheer. "MaryLynn, I'm sorry to hear this. I know Surry and I will miss you."

"I'll miss you more than you know. _Both_ of you. I won't be too far away though, if my plans work out."

"Ahh haa," drawls the statesman, his eyebrow cocking upward.

"What?" Surry innocently questions, knowing that tone of voice very well. It alluded to his master being cognizant of something unspoken.

"I have an inkling or two."

"What it is?"

"I'll explain later," the older man assures, patting Surry's shoulder as he motions for the young man to follow him home. "We must be leaving, Surry. MaryLynn, you have my word that Connor will receive this letter."

"Thank you. Again and again."

Unexpectedly, once these words were uttered in a breathy voice, her emotions thieved the reigns of her self-control as she embraced the statesman.

"Oh my," he laughs, patting the blonde woman's shoulders. It wasn't every day that Sam had received a hug from a pretty young lady.

Releasing her hold of Sam, MaryLynn embraces Surry next. The young man tightly returns the hug.

"_Never, ever _stop playing the piano," she whispers into his ear. "It was made just for you."

"As long as you sing, Miss MerryLynn."

Biting back the tears crowning at her eyes, she departs from the gentlemen, waving goodbye with a kiss blown in their direction. In the distance, Surry inquires about the inklings Sam had spoken of earlier.

"Do you suspect where she is going, Mister Adams?"

"If Connor is involved, then yes, I do. And quite frankly," he then lowers his voice, "he needs a woman in that old manor, if you ask me."

* * *

_The Next Day _

"Her body ain't lookin' so tight. That last mission had rattled her to the core. _Now_ look at her. We need serious repairs on that hull or she won't be goin' anywhere. We need metal lining."

"The Aquila will be repaired the way she deserves, I can assure you that. Once we agree on a budget, that is."

"Connor, you squeeze every coin like an old woman! It's a ship, damn you. Repair it with all you've got!"

For the past forty minutes, Connor and Robert Faulkner argued over budgets and which repairs of the Aquila withheld more priority over others. The afternoon sun was beginning to settle down, but the heat of the rays still burned the backs of their necks. An argument did not make this experience any better, mind you.

"I have to think of the homestead first," Connor reasoned. "The financial rates here are going down, so we cannot afford the best of treatments. We will settle for what we can."

Faulkner shook his head, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard frantically.

"_Aye._ I call the ship _'her'_ for a reason," says the experienced seaman. "If you don't give her the best of the best, then she will wreak havoc on you in retaliation. Hell hath no fury like a woman."

"This is a ship, Mister Faulkner; not an actual woman."

"Quiet, boy!"

"Excuse me, sir!"

Both Connor and Faulkner look over from their positions at the desk, parchments containing lists of needed repairs and doable budgets spread out atop. A messenger dressed in a navy blue vest and crisp white shirt dashed his way up to the pair of men who stood before the grand ship. He was out of breath, having first asked for Connor at the Davenport Manor. Achilles had instructed him that he search for Connor at the docks.

"Which 'sir'?" barks Faulkner, not favoring this interruption in the least.

"Connor."

"I am Connor," says the Native assassin, his gaze hard and suspicious. "Why do you seek me out?"

"I have a letter for you. Samuel Adams has sent me. It is not written in his hand, mind you, but a woman's."

"Oohh," chimed Faulkner, just before he started chuckling. "I presume a 'she' is getting 'repairs' after all."

Connor glared at the older man, cocking an eyebrow. He looks back at the messenger and takes the letter from his hand. Pulling apart the cord string, he unfolds the letter hastily. 'Why is this folded so small?' Connor wondered, his thoughts interchanging between Mohawk and English nowadays. His dark eyes skim over the artfully dramatic handwriting as he paced back and forth. Both the messenger and Faulkner awaited a response from the Native assassin.

"Well? Care to fill us in?" Faulkner questions with impatience.

Not a moment too soon did Connor's facial expression transition from suspicious and tight to soft and wide-eyed.

She wants to live with him. MaryLynn wants to live _with him_. _Here_.

"Cat got your tongue, boy? What is it?"

Crumbling the letter and shoving it into the breast pocket of his white coat, the Native assassin dashes down the boardwalk, past the messenger who stared in bewilderment over Connor's reaction.

"_Bloody hell!_ What is wrong with you, boy?!" Faulkner shouts after Connor, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the sound.

"I will return!" was all that Connor responded with, his running form quickly disappearing amongst the collection of verdant shrubs and trees.

"Huh," exhales Faulkner, his dark eyes grazing over the list of budgets with a mischievous thought in mind. "No repair is too expensive for my lady. Damn that stingy boy. I'll do this my own way, thank you very much."

The messenger remained standing there, awkward in his stance. Faulkner looks up and snarls at the young man.

"What? This isn't a show! I have work to do, now scram!"

"Sorry, sir! Yes, sir!" sputters the messenger, taking his leave hastily.

"Damn boys," mumbles Faulkner, plucking the quill from the ink jar to check off items on the list. "They don't know shit."

* * *

_Flashback, 1772_

_Breathless with excitement, MaryLynn returned from her fourth week of singing at the Green Dragon. The selection of folk songs (and some of her own original melodies) had thrilled the common dwellers of the tavern, a majority of them being eager males. Her clientele had skyrocketed! Dazzled by a songstress, men were even more enchanted to hear that the blonde woman was also a mistress in the sheets. Her income increased, and, despite portions of it going to the brothel and the tavern, she had more money than she could ever imagine possessing. _

_The best part of all of this? She had a home to return to. _

_Returning to the Maverick, she heard loud voices quarreling from behind the door. The tone sounded furious. Her eyebrows furrowed, MaryLynn hesitantly ascendes the small steps to reach the door, opening it. Down the narrow hallway was Madam and Audrey standing before the staircase, arguing with hands flailing in the air and eyes rolling. Audrey had been the top earning prostitute for quite some time. She still remembered Audrey from when she first moved in to the brothel. She paid the blonde girl no mind, having more important business to attend to. It wasn't until tonight that the raven haired woman had actually spoken to MaryLynn. _

"_Her clientele is outnumberin' yours! Your own has been falterin' and I'm losin' money here," raved Madam, trying to make it clear to one of her girls that she was not bringing in as many clients as she used to. From what the other girls had been whispering about lately, Audrey had been spending her income on luxuries rather than paying her rent or attracting more clients. _

"_That's because the little wench is singing over at the Green Dragon!" Audrey retaliated, her green eyes aflame. "Singing isn't part of the repertoire. And I'll do with my money as I wish, old woman."_

"_Why you conivin' twat, I oughta-!"_

_Unfortunately for MaryLynn, a loud creak in the floorboards had sounded off as she tried to quietly walk down the narrow hallway. The sound immediately alerted the bickering women to her presence. Her blue eyes were wide and anxious, her lips slightly parted. _

"_MaryLynn, pick up your things and take 'em to the room across from you," Madam instructed, her hands firmly placed on her round hips. _

"_But…But that's Audrey's room," she sputtered pathetically, wishing she had just resorted to entering from the back door._

"_Precisely! She can't move in to my room!" Audrey spat, looking the blonde woman up and down with a snarl as if she were rotten meat. "Just because she sings a little tune here and there. Please, what do you think you're doing, you stupid twat?"_

_MaryLynn looked down at her feet. The onslaught of such mocking words was unexpected, and she did not wish to retaliate. _

"_I won't allow it, and that's final, Madam," said the raven haired woman, her attention refocused on the older woman. _

"_You won' allow it? Have you gone mad or have you forgotten that I run this goddamn business?" Madam snarled, her temper flaring over Audrey's tantrum. "Now pick up your shit and move to the other room."_

"_This isn't fair!" Audrey shouted, stomping her foot onto the floor. _

"_Oh, shut up!"_

"_M-my room is just fine," said MaryLynn in a meek voice, breathing deeply to avoid a panic episode._

"_No buts, missy," Madam firmly declared. "You are goin' into tha' room once this lazy fool picks up her stuff and takes up your old room." _

_MaryLynn felt paralyzed with anxiety. Should she listen to Madam or Audrey? She did not want to cause trouble for anyone. _

_Audrey seethes, having been defeated in this settlement. This was the only job she had, and resigning over surrending a bigger bedroom would leave her on the street and hungry. Blast it all! She decides on some fresh air as she makes a dramatic exit with deep huffs and speedy feet. Before she passed MaryLynn, she stops in her tracks to utter words dripped in venomous revulsion. Her green eyes were dim and predatory as she looked down upon the meeker woman. _

"_The little orphan girl always gets what she wants. Watch your back, blondie."_

_As Audrey stormed out, MaryLynn bit into her lower lip to stifle any emotion. _

"_I never meant to trouble anyone," she whispers in a shaking voice. _

"_Oh, don' take tha' wench seriously. She is jus' moody over her lack of clients these days. She's been here for years."_

_However, MaryLynn did take the matter seriously. The raven haired woman was never particularly warm with her, but she was still living in the same building as she. She wished she could make a friend out of Audrey, but the woman would have nothing of it. She worked for herself, as well as lived for herself. Now, her time was passing, and she was slowly being forgotten in the business. MaryLynn felt empathetic towards the situation. Who would want to be forgotten like that? 'I never meant to hurt you.'_

* * *

_Present Day _

"Oh," came a drawl at the open doorway. "You're still here."

Looking up from her seat upon the floor, MaryLynn finds Audrey leaning against the doorframe, her dark waves loose. Her eyes avoid the blonde woman's curious gaze as she pretends to inspect her fingernails for dirt.

"I haven't left yet, if that's what you are referring to," says MaryLynn quietly, folding a pair of pantaloons. "I am still sorting through my possessions, and am waiting on an answer concerning a place to stay. You'll have your room back soon enough."

A couple of sacks lay before the blonde woman, filled with the small wardrobe that was her own. She was not a big spender, really. She just needed a little color here and there, not a dozen overly embroided dresses. She was close to completing her packing as she was sorting through her undergarments and bodices.

"I see," sighs Audrey, her eyes leaving the sight of her fingernails and finally looking down at the seated woman. "I just wanted to get an idea of where to put my dresser and all. Didn't expect you to be here."

Her tone of voice had been so devoid of emotion. Was Audrey really that indifferent? MaryLynn decided to bite the bullet, as the phrase goes, and risk bringing up what had happened between them a few years ago over the switching of bedrooms. It wasn't the switching of bedrooms that had strained the women's relationship. The true culprit was the switching of statuses.

"I never meant to create a wedge between us," she says, looking directly into Audrey's eyes with a sincere gaze.

Audrey sighs aloud, her hands dropping to her sides.

"It's not you, sugar. Well, not _really_. Men just don't want to spend the night with a spinster like me after a while."

The raven haired woman watched as MaryLynn's blue eyes widened, the sincere gaze melting into one of vulnerability. Her lips were downturned.

"You hate me, don't you? I remember your words, and that look in your eyes those years ago. I wish we could have been friends."

"I don't _hate you, _you silly twat!"

Audrey did not enjoy MaryLynn's wounded gaze reaching her heart, the heart that she had so intentionally willed to harden from flesh to cold, cold metal. The blonde woman was competition, yet she never once paraded her success in Audrey's face. She did not like that MaryLynn was so damn likeable. No wonder men climbed buildings for her (especially that odd Native man)! Audrey felt useless in her role at the brothel; she felt forgotten and toyed with one too many times. Her clientele was not what it used to be, and she knew this begrudgingly well.

"You're leaving with that odd Native man, aren't you? The one that climbs the building?"

"Possibly," MaryLynn confirms, looking down at her lap as she hopes for the best. "Yes."

"Has he ever heard of a door before?"

MaryLynn looked back up, a small smile creeping up on her face over the deadpan humor.

"I just don't ask him about that anymore. He doesn't want to be seen. Still, a door would be nice."

The raven haired woman smirks morbidly.

"You got yourself a _man_, sugar. I envy you. You're leaving this hell hole. I'm thirty-two years old, and still without a husband. Who would want a spinster?"

"So what if you're not married? I'm twenty seven, and I don't have a husband either!"

Audrey shifts her weight onto her left foot, mulling over MaryLynn's status as a single woman. 'That'll change soon enough.'

"Give it a couple of years," she says, her thoughts coming to life.

She shifts her weight again, this time onto her right foot as she tries to use her words effectively instead of offensively.

"When you moved into my room, I don't think I really hated you. I thought that I did, believe me! But, as I get older…I realize just that: I'm getting older. The charm of youth is gone, and I just don't care for very much these days. I'm bitter inside. I wish that my life were different, you know, sugar?"

"But it _can_ be different," the blonde woman interjected, her voice more confident.

"Dreamers. So naïve. You have a chance at a nice life, sugar. Enjoy it."

Audrey makes her departure before the conversation became more personal. Before she takes her leave, she says one last thing after biting into the inside of her cheek.

"I mean it, enjoy it…and _don'_t fuck it up."

MaryLynn smiles widely. As rough around the edges as Audrey was, she was actually trying to be friendly. She couldn't have been more happy in this moment to reconcile with Audrey.

"I'll see you around, MaryLynn," says the raven haired woman in a lazy drawl, offering a partial smile.

"You too. Take care, Audrey."

There was still something alive in the raven haired woman, even if it was just a small spark. MaryLynn watched her disappear from the doorframe, her smile never faltering from her flushed face. She had hoped that Audrey would find something better in life one day. And then, she realized how truly lucky she was to have the chance to start a new life on her own terms. She whispered her gratitude to God every minute she could spare for the blessing.

Eventually, as the sun ventured its way down for slumber, her clothing and undergarments were all packed into two burlap sacks. She could not afford leather suitcases, for the leather became high in price these days. It simply did not fit in her budget. MaryLynn had tucked some stalks of lavender between folded clothing so as to cover up the dingy smell of the sacks. It certainly wasn't as strong as imported parfum, but it had done a decent job in masking any unpleasant smells.

All was packed except for her trinkets, which she carefully placed in a medium sized mahogany chest. For the third time this day, MaryLynn had opened the lid, peeking inside at what she deemed to be her treasures. Inside were her dried berries for feigning a flush of the lips and cheeks; her old looking glass; pressed flowers for decoration; the crafted trinkets that Connor had made for her; and, finally, a rolled up "Wanted" poster of a young Connor from 1773.

Not too long after sealing the lid of the chest, a frantic, rapid tapping could be heard at her window. Her eyes alert, she whipped herself around and stood up straight. A large shadow anxiously continued to tap at her window, demanding attention.

"Connor?" she mumbled to herself.

Rushing to the window, the blonde woman opens the panes to find a heavily breathing Connor. 'What, is the sky falling? What has him so spooked?'

"Connor, what are you…" she trailed off, figuring a better inquiry to ask. "Did you receive my letter?"

"Yes," he huffs, his breathing beginning to ease down as MaryLynn permits him entry. "I journeyed here..._huff_...as soon as I could."

"You know, you could have written a letter in response. You didn't have to come all the way here."

"Does it matter? _Huff_...I read your letter..._huff_...I had to see you."

"Wait. That means…"MaryLynn did not finish her sentence, for her thoughts began to dance wildly over the possibility that came with Connor's impromptu visit.

"Yes," he exhales, his palms open at his sides. "My answer is, 'yes.' You can come to the homestead and live with me. I will take you there tom-"

"Now? You will?" shouts MaryLynn, her teeth bearing in a wide smile as her eyes narrow with glee. "Oh Connor, I will do everything I can-!"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you," he stops her mid-sentence, finally attaining a steady rhythm of breathing, "but please listen to me. We cannot leave at this moment. I'm here to discuss my plan with you and Madam for keeping you out of the sight of the red coats. If they associate you with me, you will be in danger. I do not say this to alarm you, but I must be honest with you. If the British forces know of you, they _will_ find you. However, this will not happen while I am around."

Connor's stern tone of voice had dampened her excitement. He spoke of the truth, and she did not even think of the possibility of red coats deeming her an affiliate of Connor and the Patriots. It was a scary thought, being discovered and interrogated for answers. The Native assassin did not mean to frighten her, but he could not blind her from what dangers lay beneath the surface of this city. Deciding to soften his tone, Connor clears his throat before speaking.

"Please bring Madam here. She should be present to listen to my briefing of the plans for escorting you to the homestead safely."

"I will fetch her right away. Connor?"

His eyebrows rise with question, although the lip of his hood had casted a shadow to conceal this facial expression.

"Thank you," she says in a soft voice, her hands pressing over her heart.

The Native assassin's lips thin out, trying to conceal his bashfulness. He picks at his leather gloves for a moment before silently scolding himself for retaining this bad habit. He nods his head twice, folding his large hands before him.

"You…You will be happy," he struggles to speak, his mouth dry. "I give you my word."

Smiling broadly, the blonde woman runs off to fetch Madam. A few minutes later, Madam was brought to the bedroom. MaryLynn insisted that she listen to Connor's plan, offering her a seat on the bed. Connor pulls up a nearby chair, turns it around, and sits with his arms resting on the back of the chair.

"Wha' is goin' on? Can you jus' tell me?" Madam impatiently demands.

"Madam, please. He will tell you in a moment. Go on, Connor."

"Thank you. Madam, I wanted you to be present for my briefing on how I plan to escort MaryLynn safely to the homestead. As I have told her, we must trek undetected so as not to lead British forces into thinking of her as an affiliate of myself or Patriot forces. If this occurs, she will be in danger. I do not intend for this to happen, and it _will not_ happen."

He carefully selected his words, purposely using the term "British" instead of "Templar" when referring to the dangers of being detected. Neither of these women was affiliated with the Assassin Order, and therefore should not be informed of what occurred behind metaphorically closed doors.

"MaryLynn, if you and I trek during the night, it will be a risk. Patrols have become strict during these hours due to sightings of rebels sneaking out to attend meetings. I cannot risk you being seen with me especially, for my reputation seems to be spreading. So, as the sun rises tomorrow morning, Sam and his wife will escort you to the outskirts of the frontier. This gathering will appear to be a family merely walking to Lexington to spend the day. There would be no suspicion whatsoever. Be ready to leave here by six o' clock.

Once you reach the outskirts of the frontier, where Lexington comes into view, I will be there waiting for you. Sam Adams and his wife will hand you over to me, and then you and I will continue from there. The trip itself will not be too long. We should arrive at the manor sometime in the evening. Your belongings will be sent out tonight so as to make tomorrow's trip light. I have a wagon driver waiting outside for just that. I will see to it that your belongings arrive safely, and they will be waiting for you at the manor. We must be as inconspicuous as possible. Does this plan agree with you both?"

"Sounds safe enough," Madam spoke up first. "I know Samuel, he is reliable. Should anythin' go wrong, I know where he lives."

"Madam!" chided MaryLynn. "Please!"

"Sam is trustworthy. You can rely on him just as I have relied on him for numerous occasions. Unfortunately, I cannot stay much longer. Are your belongings packed, MaryLynn?"

The blonde woman nods, squeezing Madam's hand without realizing her action.

"Good. I will start loading up the wagon."

"I'll help you, lad."

"No, it is fine. You don't need to strain yourself."

"Strain myself? Lad, I'm not_ tha' old_ yet! Now get that one sack while I get the other."

And with that said, Madam pushes herself off of the bed and stomps her way to the burlap sacks, lifting one up over her shoulder. Connor was wise not to argue with the Scottish woman or her will as she left the bedroom. MaryLynn shrugged her shoulders as if to say, "Just let her be." Connor looks around the bedroom, noticing that there was no pile of clothing left behind for the morning.

"If there is anything that you need for tonight and tomorrow morning, perhaps you should retrieve it now."

"I already have what I need. I'm fine."

"No clothes? Nightwear?"

MaryLynn shakes her head "no," leaning back onto her elbows.

"These clothes are clean to wear again, and I usually sleep in the nude during the hot season. Too damn hot to wear anything," she giggles, thinking she sounded reasonable before seeing a flush of red burst onto Connor's cheeks.

He begins to pick at the leather of his worn out gloves, looking away from the blonde woman as he tries to will away the heat in his face.

"Connor, don't fret. It's nothing you haven't seen before! Don't you sleep in the nude?"

"That is my business, not yours," he replies in one quick breath.

'Still a virgin?' MaryLynn muses over his behavior. 'Or just highly conservative? I wish that I could ask him without making the poor man so flustered. So odd.'

"I-I-I will take the last sack to the wagon. Meet me outside when you are ready."

Connor rushes to lift up the final sack over his shoulder, making his way out of the bedroom. MaryLynn remained leaning on her elbows upon the bed, left with her thoughts. Once the sacks were gone, she looked over to the chest that was settled atop her vanity desk (or what would soon be Audrey's vanity desk). A wave of sadness coiled around her heart as she realized that this room began to look barren.

She truly was leaving this life behind her.

The time came to leave yet another home. Tomorrow night, she would be living in a strange place that she would eventually have to call "home." She did not fool herself into security, in thinking that this home would be her permanent home. However, would anyone blame her for dreaming? For hoping?

Pushing herself upward and off of the bed, MaryLynn sluggishly strolls over to the chest, lifting it up into her arms. It was not too heavy, but it was not exactly a feather either. With her chest of treasures cradled in her arms, MaryLynn walks out through the bedroom door and into the hallway.

She stares down the hallway, at the numerous bedroom doors, all closed and brimming with unique stories of the girls of past and present; the red velvet drapes that hung upon the walls; the portraits of serene landscapes of wild flowers that may or may not exist; the staircase that would descend to the door where her life would begin anew.

Her grip on the chest became tighter, squishing against her bosom.

This was a happy occasion, yet to leave behind what she was all too familiar with had plagued her with sadness. She felt guilty. Why be so sad? She was leaving an occupation where her body was for sale. However, she met people here that were sparks of light in dreary times. She was not rejected, or even accused of something she did not commit. She was leaving for herself, to better her life. The roles were old, and she grew out of them. She had to leave it all behind for a better life.

And yet, there was an empty feeling birthing within her bosom. Another home is gone, another family left behind. She told herself before that this was nothing new. Nothing had ever been permanent in her life, so why mourn a change or two? However, one thought had always haunted her mind and her heart every time she ran away: "Will they remember me?"

She loved Madam. She loved Surry and Samuel. On some level, she loved even Audrey. Will they still love her when she was gone? She wanted to remembered, to be loved. She wanted to be loved by Madam most of all. The Scottish woman had shown her what a true mother should have been, as tough as she was at times. Her own mother was neither ready nor capable of the role, but this middle aged Scottish woman with full curves and curled red hair had been the mother that she wished she had a as child. It was never too late. God had given her a mother after all. It was not a coincidence that MaryLynn was found by this woman as she curled up beside a pile of crates. It was not a coincidence that this woman, weary and bitter over her own life, saw this young girl shivering, her eyes wide and begging for love. Madam melted and became the mother she never thought she could be. She did not give birth to MaryLynn, but she was as close to a daughter as any other girl that worked in her business.

In a few months, MaryLynn knew that she would be fine and settled in. Well, not _perfectly_ fine, but fine nonetheless. The faces of her loved ones will not evoke as much guilt then. She will not doubt herself as much for choosing herself over others for once in her life. Hopefully.

All that was left for her to ask was, "What happens to me now? Will this new home be the one for me?"

Another family. Another home. What was this new home like? Was it safe? Was it warm? What would her next role in life be? She was afraid of the unknown, and became melancholy over leaving behind the only family that had ever accepted her.

Connor awaited her appearance outside so patiently. 'Damn that man. He _never_ complains.'

The sacks settled into the wagon were heavy, not just with belongings but with memories. The memories would stay with her no matter how far she ventured. She wanted Madam to come along and live with her, to be the mother and the free woman that she wanted her to be. To leave the business, however, would leave these poor girls with no roof over their heads. She could never ask Madam to do that. Besides, she had to learn how to protect herself. She had to learn how to pick herself up from the ground should she fall.

Finding herself standing outside of the front door, MaryLynn hands Connor the chest, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Guard that chest with your life," she insists, her fists balled at her sides and her nose scrunched up to appear brave. "I have special trinkets in there."

"I promise you," Connor partially smiles, knowing that his dear friend was putting up a front.

He knew that she was scared.

"All will be well, MaryLynn," says Connor in a hushed, deep voice. "Don't be afraid. I will not leave your side tomorrow."

Her fists unclenched slowly, her features relaxing. Lashes fluttering shut, her arms wrap around her waist for comfort as quiet tears escaped her desperate need for control. 'Damn it, why can I not hold it all in? Why must I cry in front of them?' Madam was used to the blonde woman crying at random moments. As long as she was not bleeding or in danger, the older woman knew to allow MaryLynn to ride the wave of emotion until she was weary.

Connor, however, became anxious. He shifts the chest under his left arm, leaving his right arm unoccupied. 'What's wrong? Why is she crying? I don't know what to do. I don't know what she wants. Why is she still crying? What do I say?' His thoughts were rapid, colliding with another. His lips would part for words, only to shut when no words could be conjured. His dark eyes darted in every direction, his anxiety elevating over his helplessness. He could easily kill a target, swiftly maneuver fields without detection, and keep a level head in bloody battles. Taking care of a crying woman was not something he was trained for.

"M-MaryLynn?" the Native assassin mustered to say.

Before Connor knew it, the blonde woman rushed forward into his torso, burying her face into his military shirt. Physical contact. She wants comfort.

His unoccupied arm wrapped around her shoulders, his hand resting on her upper arm as she released her tears, her fears.

"I'm scared," she confesses, her voice muffled by his shirt.

He could feel the hot reverberations of her breath through his shirt. The heat made him shiver, unsure of whether or not he enjoyed the sensation. Listening closely, Connor was able to understand her muffled voice.

"Why are you scared?" he quietly asks.

"I don't know where I'm going. I don't know this place that I'm going to. I don't know if I'll be happy."

A dry sob rattles her body before she continues, collecting a bundle of Connor's shirt into her fist.

"I'm leaving another home. I'm always asking myself, 'Where am I going now?'"

"You don't have to ask that question anymore," Connor attempts to ease her troubles, cognizant of MaryLynn never having lived in a true home before. "You will be happy in this home, because you are with me. I will make it your home."

* * *

_**Author's Note**_: I cannot begin to tell you how many ideas I swapped and tossed away for this chapter. I kept changing my mind over certain scenes. Don't get my wrong, it is better to have many ideas to choose from than no ideas at all!

I chose the song, _"Another Suitcase In Another Hall"_ from the musical **EVITA** because the overall tone beautifully communicated a strong yet scared woman not sure of where she was going to live and how she would survive. Yes, Eva sings about ending love affairs, but I got the sense that she was also talking about never having a real home, a real family. I thought this suited MaryLynn perfectly in this chapter, so I provided the lyrics. I'm thinking of making a public playlist of all the songs I use to write this story. What do you think? ;)

Connor's afraid of crying women. Enough said. The reviews I received from the last update were so amazing and filled my heart with so much joy. I love you and your thoughts, your encouragements. It means a lot and I can never say thank you too many times!

**PLEASE READ:** I wanted to make a shout out to one of my reviewers who made this absolutely beautiful fan art of Connor and MaryLynn meeting for the first time. I had no clue about this until **viciousflo** sent me a message and showed me her gorgeous artwork of these characters. I almost cried at work when I saw the email and fan art, ha ha! Bless you, **viciousflo**, and I hope you received my email thanking you from the bottom of my heart! It was a pleasant surprise, and you are beyond talented. Please visit her **deviantart** page! Her username is the same as the one I provided. The piece itself is called, "First Meeting with MaryLynn."

If you or anyone you know has made fan art of this story, please alert me. I'd love to see it, and I can showcase the work here when I post updates. Have a lovely week, everyone!

~take care


	13. Rain

**Chapter 12: Rain**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick brothel. _

* * *

"_When your lips are burning mine_

_And you take the time to tell me how you feel_

_When you listen to my words_

_And I know you've heard, I know it's real_

_Rain is what this thunder brings_

_For the first time I can hear my heart sing_

_Call me a fool, but I know I'm not_

_I'm gonna stand out here on the mountain top_

_Till I feel your_

_Rain_

_Feel it on my finger tips_

_Hear it on my window pane_

_Your love's coming down like_

_Rain_

_Wash away my sorrow_

_Take away my pain_

_Your love's coming down like…_

_Rain"_

- _"Rain"_ by **Madonna**

* * *

The early morning mist veiled the city like a bride in waiting, creating a slithering mysticism amongst the shabby brick buildings. The sun was peering over the distant horizon, a silver of its radiating body visible. It seemed as if the sun did wish to rise today, and neither did MaryLynn. She did not sleep a wink at all.

The bedsheets were tangled, coiling around her shapely legs like serpents. They were tightly wound from the constant tossing and turning of her body. Her eyes burned from the lack of sleep, yet she did not feel tired. Her anxiety over this morning's departure had not eased her body, but startled it greatly. How could she possibly sleep undisturbed knowing that there was no coming back to this place?

Sitting up, MaryLynn sluggishly hunches over her lap, her blonde waves flopping over her face. She inhales deeply, extending the suckling of breath to feel a stretch in her lower back. With a deep sigh, she straightens up her posture to fetch the pocket watch lying on her nightstand. Five forty five a.m. Finally, it was time to start this day, only to end it and the anxiety as well.

Saying goodbye was never easy. Waiting to utter the word "goodbye" was pure torture. MaryLynn combs back her messy hair with an unoccupied hand as she continues to stare at the pocket watch, willing time to stop altogether.

Tossing the watch towards the foot of the bed, the blonde woman forces herself to stand up, her body heavy as lead. 'Get dressed,' she scolded herself. 'They'll be here soon, and you cannot make them wait.' A part of her did not want to get dressed and meet with Madam, Sam, and Elizabeth. She wanted to remain in bed and stay there until the end of life. She felt stressed over the changes to come and the heaviness of bidding goodbye, not just to Madam but also to an old life. A part of her identity died this past night, making way for a new identity that she had no clue how to acclimate to. She did not even know what this next role was. Did it have a name? Was a name necessary? What were the expectations? Was freedom truly liberating, or just plain frightful?

As welcome as positive change was, there was still mourning over a self that was not needed anymore, having outlived its purpose. 'These people are going out of their way to help you. The least you can do is _try_.'

Reluctantly, MaryLynn dresses herself, starting with her undergarments. Her movements are slow, dragging her limbs to perform and pull up her cotton petticoat. Eventually, she was fully dressed in a white blouse with a tie string at the collar, a black bodice with corset strings in the front, and a long emerald green skirt. Tying a black handkerchief scarf around her head, she makes her way to the door. The exit was quick, her eyes closed as she entered the hallway.

There. The hardest part was over.

'Why did I have to pack my whiskey flask? _Damnit_!'

Ten minutes passed as MaryLynn stood outside her bedroom door, clutching her sides, simulating a tight embrace from another. To descend that staircase would confirm the beginning of her departure, her next life. It was terrifying. And so, she stood there, hugging her waist tighter and tighter as the minutes tick-tick-ticked on by. She left behind that damn pocket watch for a reason. Tick-tick-tick. Time is running out.

Heavy footsteps scuff the floorboards as they ascend the staircase. MaryLynn's head darted toward the noise, her blue eyes wide as a startled doe's. Silly girl. She knew someone would come fetch her sooner or later. Loose red curls bopped up and down as Madam came into view. She was fully dressed in her day attire, not bothering with taming her hair. Her small eyes find the blonde woman standing painfully still, her eyes refusing to blink as they stare back at her.

"It's past six a.m., dearie," says the older woman, her voice husky from grogginess...and possible emotion.

"Already?" she says in what could be determined as disbelief, her gaze lowering to her feet.

"Yes. Sam and Elizabeth aren' here yet, but I suspect they'll be he-"

Four knocks could be heard rapping at the front door.

"Speak o' the devil. They're here," she says, smirking.

MaryLynn bites into her lower lip hard, her eyes rising up to Madam's face. Normally, the older woman would throw her hands up in the air, threatening to drag her girl by the wrist (a curse word or two mumbled under her breath). This time, however, she sighs aloud, a sympathetic smile spreading across her thin lips.

"It's not the Reaper, MaryLynn. C'mon, take my hand."

She offers a plump hand to the blonde woman, who clutches it desperately as she rushes for the human contact. Madam pats the back of the young woman's hand as she leads her to the steps. As the women descend the staircase, their grip on one another tightens with each step surpassed. MaryLynn's heart pounded against her bosom, her bodice visibly pulsing. The descending of the staircase felt like a prison sentence. Will the wench live or die another death of heartbreak? Madam could feel her girl shaking. Her heart swelled, knowing that the blonde woman was afraid of being rejected in a new home. In all her years, never once did she believe with all her might that a girl under her roof would escape the confines of society's underground and find a road to peace.

Until now, that is.

The older woman was giving away what could have been her only daughter. However, Madam was proud to see MaryLynn stare down a demon, even if she was petrified of the unknown. Once the pair of women reached the bottom of the staircase, Madam gently told her girl that she had to let go of her hand in order to open the door. MaryLynn was afraid of letting go of that warm, plump hand.

Alas, she knew that she had to let go of Madam.

Another set of knocks could be heard.

"Keep your knickers on, you impatient bastard!" drawled Madam as she made her way down the narrow entrance hall and to the front door.

"Madam, please don't shout at Sam. He means well."

"_Heh heh_, clearly you didn' know Sam in his younger days. He's tame now, but when he was a lad, his mouth was jus' as mean as mine."

The older woman opens the heavy red door to reveal Sam and Elizabeth. The statesman was dressed in his favorite navy blue coat, freshly cleaned and pressed. His wife shared the same well groomed demeanor, wearing a lavender plaid dress with a white mob cap tucking away her brown curls. The married couple looked simply perfect in MaryLynn's eyes as she stared awkwardly at the pair from her stance at the staircase.

"You _do know_ I can still hear your loud mouth through this door, you old bat," Sam smirks, his voice of the mischievous sort.

"Since when do I care?" chuckles Madam, gesturing for the long time couple to step inside. "Mornin', Elizabeth dear. As always, I'm happy to see you've kept this ol' dog tame all these years."

"I do try! He did not come this way, mind you," the woman tittered, her smile as bright as her husband's.

"Don' I know it," Madam mumbled, rolling her eyes.

MaryLynn stood at the bottom of the staircase, feeling out of place and beyond alien. She knew that Madam had known Samuel and Elizabeth Adams for quite some time. However, the laughter and smart alleck remarks made her feel as if she did not belong in this merry group. She never did feel that she belonged anywhere, despite mastering the art of thieving attention from crowds. If it was for the sake of entertainment, she felt that she reigned anywhere she went. If it was a social setting where she did not understand the jokes or the already established friendships, she experienced embarrassment and simply forgot how to act like a person, not a projected fantasy.

Rubbing her forearm profusely, the blonde woman continues to stand there, looking around with wide eyes, her pupils dilated.

"Oh, the poor thing is nervous," cooed Elizabeth, who appeared to be on the brink of middle age or so. "MaryLynn, no need to stand there."

"I-I'm sorry," breathed MaryLynn, slowly making her way to the small group.

"MaryLynn is jus' nervous, tha's all," Madam explained.

"It's more than understandable," chimed in Sam, always bearing that comforting smile that never seemed to falter in the face of adversity.

"Of course," Elizabeth agreed, opening her arms towards the nervous woman. "MaryLynn, it will all be fine. Once you step outside, you feel right as rain."

MaryLynn nods, trying to force a small smile on her lips. Elizabeth embraces the blonde woman, hoping to ease her nerves with affection. Sam thinned out his lips, squirming whenever his wife was overly affectionate with people. MaryLynn did not expect the hug, but reciprocated nonetheless with a shy hug of her own. The Adams' were lovely people, and she had always admired their marriage. They had several children, had been married for twenty years, and treated Surry as if he were another son despite being owned. MaryLynn did not favor slavery in the least, but she did admire how lovely her former showmate was treated.

"Now, MaryLynn," Madam began, rushing to the podium to retrieve a hidden treat. "You'll get hungry on your trip, so I put together some food you could nibble on. Should this not be enough, you make tha' man buy you dinner at a tavern. No excuses."

When Madam pulled out the care package of dried berries, nuts, and dried strips of meat. The food was bundled up in a red plaid napkin, tied in certain ways to simulate a small purse. She looked up to see a teary eyed MaryLynn. The older woman remained silent, cradling the care package in her plump arms as she thinned out her lips. A sting pricked at her eyes as she embraced the blonde woman with one arm. MaryLynn wrapped her arms tightly around Madam's neck, burying her face in her left shoulder.

"Don' cry, dearie," whispered Madam, rubbing the younger woman's back in circles. "This is a happy time. I think…I _know_ tha' I'm going to miss you most of all."

"Promise you'll never forget me," she whispers in haste, almost embarrassed for having uttered this wish.

"How can I forge' you? You cry at the drop o' a hat and drink more whiskey than a sailor."

This remark made MaryLynn laugh, chasing away the tears. Madam was relieved for the laughter; she was close to shedding tears.

"Now, c'mon," says Madam, gently breaking free of the embrace.

Escorting the blonde woman to the married couple, Madam tells MaryLynn one last thing before the group of three depart into the morning mist.

"Now, MaryLynn, I put a letter in with the food. Don' read it until you're settled in at the homestead, you hear?"

"Yes, Madam," MaryLynn speaks quietly with an eager nod. She felt a child whose mother was shooing her away in order to get to school on time. This simile brought about more temptation to sob.

Smiling warmly, her dark eyes crinkling, the Madam of the Maverick brothel waves goodbye, watching her best girl, her daughter, disappear into the mist and down the cobblestone streets.

* * *

The city itself was drained of colored on this morning. The pale hues of orange and lilac in the skies had done nothing to liven up the dirty streets and the sleepy inhabitants of Boston. It was a perfect day to retreat to bed and forget that the sun ever rose. MaryLynn and the Adams' s pass by merchants setting up their stands for the day, their movements sluggish and drooping faces begging for another hour or two of slumber. However, the day had to begin despite objections. Gold clouds littered the skies, beginning to clump together into larger blobs. No sun today? Where has the sun gone? Was She hiding too?

It felt odd to walk between Sam and Elizabeth. They were such pleasant people. She was out of place, yet she seemed to belong in between them. Guardians. Pillars. Preventing her fall. The transition from city to the frontier was a drastic change. The grass was plush and wild. The trees loomed over her, spectating the new life that has entered their wild domain. The dim light of the sun peeked through the branches, casting shadow stars on her face and hands. The dim hues of orange and lilac began to wash away in the skies, making way for an ashen grey.

Suddenly, MaryLynn was not as frightened as she previously was to leave the city. Being surrounded by nature seemed to comfort her, encourage her to venture into this new life with curious eyes.

"Not much longer now," said Sam, his strides long and relaxed. "I must admit, this early morning walk feels good."

"Yes, my love," agrees Elizabeth, heartily breathing in the scent of pinewood and musk. "It gets the blood pumping, and it is so nice when people are not crowding the streets. More peaceful this way, I say."

"The city is nothing like it is out here," the blonde owman finally speaks up, surprising both Sam and Elizabeth. "It's almost…magical out here."

"You don't get out very much, do you?" laughed Sam, amused by the blonde woman's childlike wonderment.

"Not really, no," she admits, flushing at the cheeks with embarrassment.

'I love these tress,' she quietly gushes. 'Standing tall and oh so green. Like jewels, almost. I want to pluck them and weave them into my hair like a crown. It's quiet. I hope to see animals. Maybe this trip will not be as stressful as I thought. Why have I not come here before? A place so close to the city and yet I never bothered to venture out here. I guess I never had a reason to until now. Then again, I would probably get lost. That sounds like me.'

* * *

Connor rested his back against the stout bark of a tree as he sat atop a thick branch several feet above the ground. One long, muscular leg stretched out along the length of the branch while the other leg dangled over, swinging back and forth. This past night's to-and-fro with the wagon containing MaryLynn's belongings did not take up most of his time. He returned to the manor in the middle of the night, the moon past the mid-point in the velvet skies. He was able to spare a couple of hours to sleep before having to venture back out into the frontier to meet with Sam, Elizabeth and MaryLynn.

Little sleep was not as burdensome as it once was when Connor began to embark on multiple missions, relocating from destination to destination without rest. His circadian rhythms became accustomed to the sporadic schedule, and his body was able to function with as little as two hours of sleep. An uneventful routine was not common, but when he could savor such time, Connor enjoyed it very much…until the idleness drove him to madness.

The Native assassin was not one to remain idle without purpose for long periods of time. He was driven by revenge and perseverance, and sitting still was not his forte. Achilles had lectured him time and time again that there would be periods of time when not much could be done, and waiting for a lead on targets was the only option. _"Enjoy the time now, boy," _he would say. _"If the universe grants you some time alone for peace, you should accept instead of spitting on it like a spoiled child." _'The old man may be right, but this gives me no gratification. What good comes from waiting for something that may or may not come?' Connor's musings settled down. He did not need nor want a distraction right now. At least his idle times would be shared with another person who did not whack him with a cane. 'I swear, the old man does it for his entertainment sometimes.'

His trip with MaryLynn would take a little longer than usual when compared to traveling alone. When alone, Connor would free run amongst the tree branches at high speeds, even when caught in a storm. Yet, he was aware that MaryLynn was not accustomed to traveling long distance, especially to his methods of travel. An easy pace was required, hence him telling the blonde woman the previous night that they would arrive at the manor by sunset. He accounted for a break or two along this trip when estimating their arrival time. This did not leave him disgruntled, mind you. He looked forward to taking her through the forests and open fields, somewhere she had never been. He could relive the excitement and joy MaryLynn had exhibited when he had taken her to King's Chapel last year. Nature was not exactly a beloved chapel, but Connor hoped that she would find the outdoors just as precious and sacred.

The sun was hidden behind clusters of thick grey clouds. 'A rain storm is coming today,' he thought, assessing the humidity levels. 'Of all days.' Judging from where the most light collected in the skies, he determined the time of day by the sun's position. 'They should be arriving here soon. Hopefully, the red coats have not stopped them for questioning. This would be the only time I don't disagree with Samuel Adams' ability to lie to people though his teeth with honeyed words.'

Connor continues to swing his leg over the tree branch, enjoying the rest. However, his dark eyes never ceased their scanning of the environment below, his vigilance of yellow hair never ending.

* * *

"I think it's simply sweet how this young man is taking you to a nice, quiet place. So many trees and flowers. Sharing the quiet peace of the outdoors on the front porch. Goodness, MaryLynn, you give me this sense of regaining my girlish youth!"

Elizabeth had been gushing over MaryLynn moving in with the Native assassin since leaving Boston. She had only met the young man twice, but, judging from his manners and stern demeanor, she could tell that he was raised well. The blonde woman would merely nod, her cheeks reddening at the honeyed comments. The woman made it sound as if Connor had proposed marriage to her! MaryLynn had insisted that Connor was only a good friend and that he was just being kind. This did not dampen Elizabeth's emergence in a fantasy, mind you. Not in the least bit.

"Elizabeth," moaned Sam, rubbing his eyes of frustration, "must you romanticize everything? You make it sound like Connor is waiting with a bouquet of flowers and a sonnet to recite. He isn't a romancer. Even if you were to get him drunk off his arse, he wouldn't have a clue."

"Why don't you like to have fun, Samuel?" Elizabeth shouted, her fists balling at her sides. "MaryLynn, I can have fun, can I not?"

MaryLynn flushed a deeper shade of red, her heart racing with social anxiety. She wrung her small hands together, not wanting to participate in the married couple's banter.

"W-well," she began in a quiet voice, "having fun isn't so harmful, really."

"See? She agrees with me!"

"Of course she agrees with you. Women remain loyal to one another if it means proving a man wrong. I don't blame you, MaryLynn. My wife can be a she-beast when she is crossed."

"I am no she-beast!"

The blonde woman had to admit that Sam and Elizabeth were lovely distractions from her indistinguishable plethora of mixed emotions. Excitement. Anxiety. Hope. Dread. However, she did silently agree with Sam: Connor was in no way a Casanova of a man, so to speak. If told to bestow a bouquet of flowers to a woman, he would simply ask, "Why?" If told to recite a sonnet, he would first ask what a sonnet was. And then, he would remark on how silly and nonsensical the words sounded. The Native assassin would most likely say, "A woman is a human being, not a flower," as if the simile were completely berserk to even consider. "Why, she would think you have gone mad if you claimed that she was a plant." MaryLynn tittered at the thought. She could easily hear Connor speaking with this logic in mind.

In all honesty, it was his lack of skill and finesse with women that enchanted her. It was honest behavior. Any man could bring her flowers and shower her with flattery on her beauty. However, it was all done with a motive in mind. I'll give you something if you give me something in return. A fumbling fool with his tongue tied…that was honest. That was what a woman such as herself found precious. She smiled to herself warmly, stroking the leather bracelet delicately at the thought of the Native assassin.

What was also nice was that he did not care if she was six years his senior; a spinster, no less. However, what did he _truly_ think of her, knowing that she has been intimate with dozens of nameless men over the years for survival? The blonde woman did not know if their relationship would surpass friendship and delve into something more, but she could not prevent herself from thinking of the possibility. What if living together led to a moment of intimacy? What then? Would Connor be disgusted to know that other men have touched, caressed, savored her skin before he could? MaryLynn suspected that he was celibate, but was he a _virgin? _

She could not determine this! She could not even ask the poor man without him having a nervous breakdown over such things and storm out of the room. Physical contact had left him startled, and it took almost two years of knowing MaryLynn for him to at least cease his shakes whenever she touched his arm. What was so wrong about human contact? About sex? Then again, sex was just as natural as breathing to MaryLynn. She could not speak for her dear friend in this department.

If Connor was a virgin…Oh dear Lord, she had her work cut out for her. Like an artist facing a blank canvas, she would feel overwhelmed with where to even start, especially if she was well acquainted and emotionally attached to the metaphorical canvas. 'You don't even know if you will ever be intimate with him! He probably just wants to remain friends and nothing more. He probably has his eyes set on someone else, for all you know. He has a life _outside_ of you. However, my sexuality is what I know best. Goodness, he would think me filthy if he ever lay with me! He seems so innocent…Why take a whore for a lover?'

"MaryLynn, are you alright?" queries Elizabeth, rubbing the blonde woman's shoulder. "You are so quiet. I hope we aren't making you feel uncomfortable."

MaryLynn flushed from embarrassment over Elizabeth thinking her and her husband's company was unwanted.

"Oh, no, no, no!" she shouted frantically, her palms pressed together as if she were about to pray. "It's nothing like that, Elizabeth. I'm just nervous. I tend to live in my head when I'm nervous. It's a circus in there, really. I'm sorry."

"I understand," says Elizabeth, her hand leaving the blonde woman's shoulder to squeeze her hand lovingly. "No need to worry. This walk has been pleasant. You'll see Connor very soon. Is he courting you, if I may ask?"

"Elizabeth!" shouts Sam, his face reddening.

"I am just asking, Samuel! _Christ Almighty_.."

Once the group had reached the meeting point where the sleepy town of Lexington came into view, Sam had instructed the women to stop at a particular spot near the cornfields.

"Well, here we are," he sighs, straightening out his navy blue coat. "The ranch is in sight in the east. We wait near the cornfields close to the forests. Yes, this sounds like what Connor had told me. However," the statesman pauses to look up towards the treetops, "Connor doesn't seem to be here."

"I don't see him either, my love," Elizabeth confirms as well, looking to the treetops for a man in a white coat. "Wasn't he supposed to be meeting us here? Did you confuse his instructions?"

"I certainly did not confuse his instructions! He'll be here. Just you wait."

"I still don't see him," Elizabeth insisted, her head darting about from tree to tree, glancing at the cornfields occasionally. "You said that he wore a long white coat, correct?"

"Yes, I wear such clothing."

Elizabeth squeaks in surprise at the unexpected voice. MaryLynn and Sam were desensitized to Connor's quiet appearances. It was nothing new to them, really. All three individuals turned about to find Connor walking in long strides past the towering oak trees and wild flower shrubs, a spot where they all had looked just moments ago. MaryLynn smiled widely in relief at the sight of the Native assassin.

"Good God, young man! You scared nearly twenty years off my life!" shouted Elizabeth, laughing as she clutched her bodice where her heart would be residing.

"I'm sorry to have frightened you, Mrs. Adams. It was not my intention."

"Don't worry yourself over the Misses," Sam waved his hand, dismissing his wife's hysterics. "We have raised a few boys over the years, so she's used to surprises."

The statesman extends his large hand to shake Connor's in greeting. Connor accepts, shaking the older man's hand firmly.

"Even in that white coat you blend in with the background and nearly disappear," comments Sam, inspecting the rather noticeable white and blue attire with a red sash tied around the Native assassin's waist, a silver Assassin insignia adorning the crimson material.

Connor nods, not entirely sure how to respond. Achilles had trained him well in the Assassin art of blending in with crowds and scenery to the extent where the assassin could be an illusionist. However, even as a child, he knew how to time his departures and arrivals so that no one would sense his presence. He preferred to hide as a child, and only be seen when he had wanted to be seen. Too much attention was uncomfortable to him. Some people despised solitude in the shadows, but Connor required it sometimes in order to recuperate from his day. Forced conversations and social gestures were a personal pet peeve of his. It all left him drained of energy as if he had run the circumference of the frontier five times in a row (he would much rather perform this activity instead of striking up a casual conversation!).

Connor knew when he was comfortable with someone when he did not experience stress over having to say something in order to put the person at ease. The silence would be pleasant for both of them, and neither would be required to say or do anything at all. Coexistence. Two separate individuals comfortable with just pure, unadulterated silence. A lot of people felt nervous over silence, Connor observed. _Talk, talk, talk_…Just to chase away the silence. It wasn't threatening. It was peaceful.

Dismissing his unspoken opinions on social gestures, the Native assassin proceeds to shake Elizabeth's hand, his grip gentler compared to his grip on Sam's hand. He apologizes once more to the woman for having startled her, his dark eyebrows knit tightly. The woman chuckles as she insists that no apology was needed at all. Her cheerful disposition was very similar to that of her husband's.

Connor finally sets his eyes upon MaryLynn, who can be seen tightening the handkerchief scarf around her head.

"MaryLynn, are you ready?" he inquires, his voice beginning to rasp from a dry throat.

The gentle look in his eyes had a tranquilizing affect on her. Those familiar dark eyes were still visible despite the shadow cast by the pointed lip of his hood. She stopped fiddling with her handkerchief scarf and allowed her hands to slowly drop to her sides, the makeshift handle of the care package held tightly in her right hand. The blonde woman smiles through her fear, entrusting her wellbeing with the man standing tall before her.

"Yes," she says, her shy voice that classic breath of air. Her quiet, feminine voice would barely meet Connor's ears, but, nonetheless, it would enchant him all the same how much he had to listen in order to hear her.

Connor merely nods at the blonde woman's response, suppressing a smile that managed to tug at least one corner of his full lips. MaryLynn walks over to him, only to turn around to bid Sam and Elizabeth her gratitude. Her facial features softened as she gazed at the lovely, kind couple. Sam stood tall, his grin proud and his dark eyes twinkling as he stood beside his partner. Elizabeth, with her open heart, radiated love as she smiled, curls of brown hair poking through her white mob cap.

"Thank you both for escorting me. I'm terribly sorry for my poor company…and this early hour."

"It was no trouble at all, MaryLynn," assured Sam as he wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I could use some more activity in the morning to get the blood pumping. Happens when you get old!"

"Besides, it's rather nice for my husband and I to walk together without the children chasing our heels. You might have given us a new daily routine to share."

"I'm happy that you are all safe," Connor joined in the conversation. "You have my utmost gratitude for protecting her."

"She's a treasure!" gushed Elizabeth, motioning to MaryLynn with downturned open palms. "Don't lose her now, young man. You might need her."

"Eliza_beth_!"

"Oh shut up, Samuel!"

Connor looked to MaryLynn with raised eyebrows. She shrugged her shoulders, communicating to not interfere with the banter. Departing from the married couple, Connor and MaryLynn set off into the woods, the blonde woman immediately grabbing onto his muscular bicep for comfort. His upper body visibly stiffens, only to relax after a moment or two. He was becoming more and more accustomed to her touch, his bodily reactions tampering down at a quicker pace. The care package was safely in the possession of the blonde woman's unoccupied hand, gently swinging the makeshift purse forward and backward like an excited little girl. Sam and Elizabeth leave in the opposite direction, deciding to cut through Lexington.

"She's in good hands," says Elizabeth, nodding her head with the affirmation. "I wouldn't have picked anyone else to take that young man's place."

* * *

They had been walking side by side for about an hour and a half. The humidity levels did not improve, and the skies were becoming a darker shade of grey. A storm was inevitable by the looks of the weather. Yet, this did not seem to dampen their enjoyment of the other person's company.

Every sound emitted from an animal startles and intrigues the blonde woman simultaneously. It was entertaining for Connor to watch every little reaction she staged towards the vibrant life of the forest.

"It amazes me how you have never left Boston to venture into the woods. Is nature truly alien to you?" he asks, folding his hands behind his back.

"Yes. I'm sorry," she looks away bashfully, eyeing a shrub of yellow flowers. "You probably think I'm strange."

"I do not think such a thing about you. I'm just amazed at the fact that you have not walked in these woods before. I can never imagine myself living in a city and not know the feel of the wind, the rays of the sun, the whispers of the trees, the mannerisms of the animals that live here. It is no wonder that you felt trapped in Boston."

"You're very chatty, you know?" MaryLynn titters, surprised by how much her dear friend had overcome his usually reserved nature.

"Sorry. I'm just trying to make conversation," Connor apologizes as if he spoke too much. In actuality, he never spoke enough.

'Plus,' he thought to himself. 'I am happy to take you away from that old lifestyle.'

"No, no need for apologies. You usually speak few words. I like that you are sharing your thoughts with me more often. It makes me feel special."

Blue eyes capture sight of a light brown hare poking its head through a shrub. Startled at having been sighted, the hare dashes away, its cotton puff of a tail bopping up and down. Her gaze follows the small animal, her feet stopping in place to watch. The little hare stops in its quick paced tracks to look back at the woman, only to continue its retreat to a small burrow in the ground. 'Huh…I wonder that hole leads to, Mr. Rabbit.'

"You're lucky to have been raised outdoors," she gushes, rushing to keep up with Connor's long legged strides. "It's open ground for imagination!"

The Native assassin nods, pleased to see that MaryLynn did indeed enjoy nature the way he had hoped for.

"That is why I fight with all my strength to preserve these lands," he confesses, his subtle joy dissolving. "British forces have been attempting to purchase land that already inhabits people; people with homes and families. _My_ people. I only hope that other tribes besides my own are not driven out by British law."

"I can't imagine losing a home, esepcially a home I loved."

"I do what I can to fend off men with greedy hands from purchasing these lands. Clan Mother can only remain passive for so long before the village is attacked as it was in the past. She does not believe in exhibiting an aggressive force against these men, but she does not want casualties either. She has spoken of yielding to British forces and moving out west should our people be threatened. If this is so, the chiefs and the village must respect her decision."

"Is Clan Mother in charge of what goes on in the village?"

"Yes. She possesses authority over certain aspects of the village."

"Like what? Her role sounds fascinating. Please, tell me more!"

"Umm…As you wish," he hesitantly accedes, not accustomed to such enthusiasm over his culture.

Her questions were queried out of pure curiosity and a desire to know. Did she find his world enchanting like the world of Shahryar, the Persian king of the Arabian Nights tales? A subtle pride began to well within his chest at the very thought.

"Our tribe is matrilineal," Connor resumes to his explain, "meaning that our descent is traced down by maternal heritage. The clan mother is a woman chosen by the people for her wisdom and for her ability to remain calm and put the tribe's needs before her own. She is also responsible for selecting chiefs to be part of the tribal council, representing our tribes in the Iroquois council. She is the one who watches these nominated men as they grow from boys to men, judging their character. The chiefs are counseled by the clan mother when making decisions that affect the tribe, especially during times of threat."

"She sounds like the foundation of the tribe. Without her, the tribe would be lost. She sounds like Madam; without her, the girls would be lost and directionless."

"I guess you can make that similarity. Women are highly respected in my village…Even my mother."

"You sound as if you are implying that she deviated from the tribe."

It becomes hard for him to speak. Even the mentioning of "mother" thieved him of the ability to speak, to experience emotion. A sense of numbness overcame his facial features, a defense mechanism towards the underlying guilt and pain of his mother's death. He clears his throat as he continues to walk forward. MaryLYnn could sense that he inched just tad away from her, his eye contact close to nonexistent.

"Due to her bloodline and the current Clan Mother's nomination, my mother was meant to inherit the position of clan mother when the time came. However, her actions and beliefs in dealing with these opposing forces had changed the minds of the people and Clan Mother. My people are peaceful, and do not intend on fighting. My mother was not one to sit idly by and remain passive, though. She bore the spirit of a warrior. She fought for what she believed was right. I remember the arguments she would have with Clan Mother when I was a boy. I do not remember the exact words, but I do recall my mother's flaring passion to fight those who threaten our wellbeing. She had a temper."

MaryLynn hums as she smiles with morbid undertones.

"She sounds like you. Or rather, you sound like her."

"She was a brave woman."

He is sullen and quiet now. He turns his head to face MaryLynn, but finds that he cannot look at her. An old wound was beginning to crown, and his body's instinct was to dash away from the blonde woman. However, Connor struggled to remain in this place, in the present moment and walk alongside her instead of dashing away. He found it more difficult to conceal his vulnerability with someone present. However, to abandon MaryLynn in the woods was selfish. He swallowed his pain, chasing away the sight of wildfires and the scent of burning flesh from his mind.

How strange that, after all these years, his senses could still register this particular sensory feedback. There is no fire. This is no burning flesh. And yet, he can relive the tragic scene easily as if time was irrelevant. He could still revert to the age of five within a heartbeat should he be triggered. He struggled with these demons every time he smelled smoke; every time he lost men in battle; every time he witnessed wildfires. Sometimes, he thought himself a masochist for fighting in this revolution that oh so threatened to flare up his trauma tenfold. Whether or not Connor was indeed a masochist is up for debate.

"I don't wish to speak of this anymore," the Native assassin mutters in a voice deeper than usual. It birthed from deep within his throat, which threatened to close.

"I'm sorry if I brought on painful memories," MaryLynn desperately atones, rushing to Connor's side. "If it's any consolation, I think she would be proud of you. I admire her already."

Connor is still distant. MaryLynn feels immensely guilty. How did his mother die? What had happened that left Connor believing that he couldn't save her? Was she murdered? She couldn't ask him in fear of depressing him further. 'Damn you, you just can't keep your curiosities to yourself!' she silently scolded herself. 'At least his mother loved him. At least she wasn't crazy.' She would have been honored to meet the brave Native woman. She acted against her family, her people's views to pursue her own beliefs. How did she do it? Was she afraid? MaryLynn imagined her to be like Connor: stern, intimidating, but kind. 'I wish I could meet you.'

The blonde woman granted Connor some time to remain silent and mull over his troubles. She respected his current mood, and did not want to push him to dismiss what he felt. After an appropriate amount of time had passed, she deemed it to be safe to speak again and ease his mind.

"You know, I've never climbed a tree before?" she changes the subject, the silence becoming much too painful to bear. "Perhaps changing the subject would lighten Connor's mood.

Now who was comforting whom on this trip?

"You kid me," the Native assassin blurts out, his eyes regaining a sense of life once more. "Am I saying this phrase correctly? You _kid me_?"

"Ha ha! You mean to say, 'Are you kidding me.' And no, I am not."

'There you are, Connor,' her thoughts revealed joy over having seen Connor's mood lighten a tad. She knew that this subject would distract him. 'It is nice to have you back.'

"You haven't even climbed a tree in that small back area of the brothel," he persists in interrogating her, "or a tree near those vegetable gardens? I've seen them before, I know they exist."

"No. I never bore the urge to climb a tree, I do apologize," she says sardonically, which was out of character for her.

The blonde woman did not see the huge significance in climbing a tree, according to Connor. A lopsided smile stretches across the Native assassin's lips, finding this fact the strangest he had ever heard.

"I will teach you tomorrow," he declares, "in the afternoon. By then, you will know how to climb a tree."

"What? Why?"

"I insist. It is not up for discussion."

"To climb a measly tree? You are mad, mad as a hatter!"

"I've been told such things before. I was once compared to a march hare, I believe. I can understand, since they tend to be restless and sporadic. A hatter, however, I do not understand this phrase."

Connor feels somewhat ashamed in admitting his ignorance. However, as he aged, he began to dampen his pride in such things. If he did not understand something, he simply asked for an explanation so that he could understand. There was no shame in asking to understand something foreign.

"March hares are restless? I can see the resemblance."

Connor shakes his head at the blonde woman, smirking.

"A hatter," she explains, "is a different story. I was once told by a former client about the origins of this phrase. Hatters work with some type of material that contains a substance that can poison one's mind. Over time, if exposed long enough, the poison causes the hatter to suffer from delirium." ++

"So you say that I suffer from delirium?"

MaryLynn sighs deeply. 'I am tempted to say this, but I am just being grumpy.'

"Nevermind. Benjamin made it sound more fascinating. He claimed that the substance in the material is most likely mercury, which I've never heard of. He said that it has been in existence since the ancient Egyptians roamed the earth. Then again, what in the world do I know?"

"Who is Benjamin?" Connor asks, not even bothering to ask more about this "mercury" substance.

"The bespectacled gentleman who gave me the Arabian Nights books."

"Oh him. Would his surname be Franklin, by any chance?"

"How did you know?!" her blue eyes shot open, sparkling at the mention of dear Benjamin.

"I have heard of Benjamin when I attended George Washington's induction of becoming Commander in Chief for the Continental Army in Philadelphia. Benjamin was supposed to attend this meeting, but was called to other duties. I was told that he is beyond intelligent, surpassing the average man even. He has done quite remarkable things for this revolution for years, apparently."

"Yes! That's him!" shouted MaryLynn, a pep in her step as she slightly bounced. "Oh, I wish you could have met him. Maybe you still can. He is a chatter, and has so many interesting stories to recount."

A raindrop plops onto the tip of her nose. Wrinkling her nose, she looks up at the skies for answers. The ashen clouds had grown in numbers, blending into one cluster of colorless gloom above their heads.

"I felt a rain drop," she says, standing very still.

"Did you?"

Connor looks up along with her. Nodding to himself, he confirms his earlier prediction of a rainstorm.

"I hope you don't mind getting wet."

"It's just a drop. Why would I mind?"

"No. I'm referring to the storm that is coming."

"A storm? Today? Should we stop walking now?"

"We will seek shelter when the time comes. There is no use in worrying about something that has not occurred just yet."

Twenty minutes later, on the dot, a storm comes pouring down in thundering sheets of rain. MaryLynn squeaks in reaction to the chilling rain as it collides against her skin. She wraps her care package in her arms, shielding the plaid cnapkin with her limbs and bosom from getting wet. The grand trees towering over them could only do so much in sheltering her from the storm.

Connor quickly grabs her wrist as he seeks shelter.

"Come this way!" he shouts in the loud storm. "I know of a cave nearby!"

She squeaks once again, this time in response to Connor's firm grip and quick pace. One arm bore an ironclad grip around the care package. She found it difficult to keep up with him, but the chase was actually enjoyable.

She laughed heartily as Connor pulls her by the wrist to a nearby cave. The adrenaline of being caught in the pouring rain gave her a thrill. The cold, wet sensation was exciting. She did not care if her clothing became matte against her skin. The feel of Connor's large hand gripping her wrist was a different sensation altogether. He tried not to cut off her circulation, repressing his full strength. He worried over hurting her small wrist as he pulled the blonde woman along with him. Yet, the desperate pull to shelter gave her shivers all over her body. There was a sense of living. MaryLynn was living in the moment. She felt _alive_ for the first time.

He does not understand why she is laughing. Regardless, the Natice assassin was able to locate a cave he knew of and pull them both out of the storm. His white coat became heavier when wet. Releasing MaryLynn's wrist, he could see that she was soaking wet, her laughter never faltering as she stumbled over to the wall, dropping the care package to the floor. Thick strands of blonde hair stuck to her face, framing the curve of her cheekbones and sticking to her wet lips.

"What is so amusing?" questions the Native assassin, catching his breath.

"_This_!" she laughs in between words. "This is fun, ha ha. Getting caught in the rain. Running around like animals. It gives me goosebumps _all over_!"

Combing back her wet hair, MaryLynn's laughter eases down. Staring at the woman, Connor captures a glimpse of a happy girl with not a care in the world. The laughter was contagious, for a smile spread across his lips. Then, something unexpected happened.

He chuckled audibly. It lasted only a few seconds, but Connor openly showed amusement. The way his eyes crinkled with the expression was precious, his chuckles deep and soft as a summer breeze.

"See?" calls out MaryLynn. "You think it's fun, too! All it took was a rainstorm to get you to laugh."

Connor quickly composes himself, peering out of the cave's wide mouth to watch the rain batter the ground. MaryLynn embraced herself for warmth, her teeth beginning to chatter.

"Oh my, it's freezing! If it's not hot outside, it sure is cold."

"You are soaking wet. Here, take my coat. The inner lining is not as drenched, and it will keep you warm."

He proceeds to remove his quiver, bow, and belt of weaponry in order to remove his coat, the assassin's hidden blade the last to be discarded. Once he is free, his belongings in a neat pile, Connor advances towards the blonde woman to drape it over her shoulders.

"What are you doing? What about you?"

"I'm fine. You are shivering."

The white coat was large on the woman's body, drooping rather hopelessly around her smaller form. Connor made sure to close the coat without buttoning it shut. He made sure to close the coat shut at her collarbone, careful not to brush his hands against her wet bosom. The thought made him nauseous despite his arousal.

She was close enough to his body for an embrace. He stood several inches taller than MaryLynn, her blue eyes staring at his broad chest. She then looked up into his focused eyes, the rain soothing in the background as it cleansed the world of its sorrows. Connor shifts his gaze to the heavy hooded eyes staring up at him.

Her lips were full and parted slightly, her breathing barely audible. He froze in place, unsure of the position he was in. His hands remained on the coat, holding it closed in front of MaryLynn's torso. Before he knew it, the enchantment of the rainstorm and the pounding thunder brought the blonde woman's lips to press against his own.

She stood upon the tips of her toes to reach his soft lips. She could feel his hands leave the coat's lining, so she held it closed with her own hands. Connor's breath came in spurts against her kiss, surprised and pleasantly aroused by the skill of her rosy lips enveloping his lower lip. Slowly, sensually, she sucked on the tender flesh, evoking a suppressed moan from deep within Connor's throat. The rumble of the thunder was as loud as his heartbeat, throbbing in his chest and reverberating all the way up to his reddening ears.

The blonde woman pulls away, unabashed by her kiss. He did not kiss her in return, but her lips remained close, her hot breath tickling his mouth. A moment passed before she decided that he would not reciprocate. Before she could register the emotion of being rejected, she felt his large hands nervously settle upon her upper arms, preventing her from moving away. His touch was hesitant, yet eager as his wet lips came closer to her own. He pressed his lips against hers, soft and chaste as he brushed the tender skin for permission to touch it.

He relished in how warm and inviting the kiss felt. He wasn't quite sure of any techniques, but he mimicked MaryLynn's movements and enveloped her lower lip gently, afraid to suckle too hard or too soft. Her lips were famished, hungrily chasing after his own, evoking another small moan from the Native assassin. She whimpered gently against his lips, her arms wrapping around his thick neck. The white coat fell to the ground with a heavy "plop" and pooled around her feet.

The moment he felt her wet clothes against his torso, Connor shivered. The beads of the rosary beneath his military shirt dug into his taut skin as she pressed into him. Suddenly, he was afraid of where his hands would roam, so they remained hovering by his sides. She smiled at his reaction, loving how new he was to a woman's touch. It made him even more beautiful.

The kiss became a little too intense for Connor when MaryLynn nipped at his upper lip…her breasts pressing too closely against his chest…her hips grooving along his own…her thigh painfully brushing against his crotch. The wet clothing made her body more detectable against his form, and the sensation overwhelmed him, _excited _him. The soul searching kiss. The wet body molding up against his physique. The pouring rain pitter-pattering against the earth's soil. The roaring thunder shaking up the heavens. All of his senses were engaged, leaving him ecstatic to the point where an erection swelled in his navy blue breeches. The moment he realized his body's reaction, he pulled back abruptly. Connor silently begged that the blonde woman did not feel his manhood swell against her thigh. To his dismay, she did in fact notice his manhood.

"I-I-I should g-gather decent tinder for a fire. A cold is th-the last thing either of u-us n-n-need."

His sputtering and stuttering was pathetic, his eyes refusing to look at the arousing woman as he fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt. He seized his fallen coat from the ground with haste, desperately trying to thrust his arms through the sleeves. He assembles his gear back onto his body, dropping his quiver now and then as if he ad never touched the damn thing before. Hastily, Connor turns around, pulling the open coat over his crotch area as best as he could to conceal the bulge. Once he composed himself with thoughts of prepping the cave for shelter, he was able to speak properly. However, his gaze still did not fall onto the woman standing before him, bemused by his terribly odd behavior. He refused to even face the front of his body in her direction, only turning his head over his shoulder to speak to her.

"Actually, I will inspect this cave for any trace of animals first. It is better to make sure that this shelter is clear of inhabitants and not the home of a mother bear."

"You do that," MaryLynn sighs, tucking a wet lock of hair behind her ear.

'Well, that answers my question,' thought the blonde woman as she watches Connor walk several paces away from her. He finds a particular spot in the far right corner. He kneels down on the ground, looking for some indication of an animal living in this cave. Swiping his fingers along the ground, he sniffs for any trace of markings or natural scent of an animal. 'He's a virgin, alright.'

She looks down at the care package on the ground. She had shielded it from the rain as best as she could. It was not in fear of soaking the food, but in fear of soaking the letter that lay amongst them. Kneeling down, MaryLynn widens the opening of the package, fishing for the folded letter. She finds it, safe and dry. As tempting as it was to open it and read it now that their trip was on a temporary hiatus, she felt that it was not the right time yet. If she was going to read Madam's letter, then she would read it alone. As much as she trusted Connor, this moment she wanted to experience alone. Tucking the letter back into the makeshift purse of a red plaid napkin, she taps the bulge of food lovingly. 'I'll read you soon. I just have to be alone.'

* * *

++: _"Mad as a hatter,"_ is a phrase that was originally used to describe a hatter's prolonged exposure to the metal mercury in the felt material in which they worked with. The mercury poisoning would cause them to experience delirium. Although it is famous for referring to the character "the Mad Hatter" from Lewis Carroll's "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" (my all time favorite piece of literature, next to the Millenium/Dragon Tattoo Trilogy), it is not where it sourced from since this classic book was not published until 1865.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Being the chatter box that I usually am, I am going to keep this A/N short and sweet. _They kissed! Finally!_ And yet, poor Connor retreats. Give him time, everyone. He will come around. ;)

**As for the future sex scenes:** is strict on graphic sexual material, so please refer to my account on Archive of Our Own (my penname is **MarilynMunster**) when the time comes. I will leave a notification in updates when a sex scene was taken out and was added to the chapter in the AO3 update (since the rules there are a little more liberal.)

I can never say "thank you" enough! All of your support and enjoyment of this story is beyond flattering, and I am very grateful to have such feedback. I will update as best as I can.

~take care


	14. Avert Your Eyes

**Chapter 13: Avert Your Eyes**

_I do not own Assassin's Creed 3 characters. I do own MaryLynn, Madam, and the Maverick brothel. _

_Thank you to my boyfriend Joe for helping me with the proper terms for starting a campfire. I love you!_

* * *

"_Once it meant something to me._

_I find it rather stunning._

_I draped it in cold and clarity._

_It's true, I find the look becoming._

_Walk right through me, I'm not really there._

_What could you see?_

_What could you find?_

_If we meet please avert your eyes._

_What I'll never show, what you'll never find_

_Is explosive so hide your eyes."_

- _"The Love Letter"_ by **Blaqk Audio**

* * *

She awaited Connor's return from collecting small twigs and fallen branches. Rubbing her arms for warmth, her body began to adjust to the temperature. The humidity could be felt on every inch of her body. The thick moisture in the air was a disgusting suffocation, like famished leeches suckling on her skin. Preceding his quick search, Connor had confirmed that the cave was not the territory of an animal. Despite his careful investigation, he remained alert and constantly checked the large crevice in the mountains for any predators. Without him, MaryLynn was defenseless.

It was not long before the Native assassin returned. He cradled the gatherings in his muscular arms, swiftly making his way to a spot where the fire would be built. He had been careful in his selection of wood. Wet wood was useless for a fire. He then instructed MaryLynn in a monotone voice to collect stones from the cave while he separated the twigs from the branches. This collection was good enough, but it would take time to build a fire if the wood was too damp from the storm. Luckily, Connor was a patient man with situations concerning nature. Did he bear the same patience with people? Not so much, truthfully.

Before he began to prepare the fire, he reminded himself to give the blonde woman his coat to keep warm. The cave was cooler in temperature the deeper they had entered. He mentally cursed himself for not thinking of the gesture sooner.

"I'm sorry, you must be cold," said Connor hastily, removing his belt and weaponry from the coat.

"I'm fine. I think my body is getting used to the temperature anyway," she reasoned, accepting the coat from his large hands. "Thank you, Connor."

"I may need some cotton material," he said as he watched MaryLynn adjust the large white coat on her smaller frame. "Would it be too much to ask you for a portion of that napkin?"

"It's no trouble. I'm hungry anyway. Hell, I might eat all of the food, so I won't need much of the napkin then," she chuckled, pulling the coat closed.

Fetching the makeshift purse, she rushes over to Connor. Sitting across from him, she loosened the knots in the napkin. She then dumped the goods into her lap before handing the red plaid napkin over to Connor.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his eyes meeting her own for barely a second.

Pulling out a knife from one of the holsters in his belt, he began to cut off a good portion of the plaid napkin, tearing it into smaller pieces. Next, once he had enough strips, he rubbed the material together for heat in order to separate the cotton fibers. This would assist in catching a spark.

MaryLynn watched intently, fascinated by Connor's intense concentration and care for building the fire. She did not know that building a fire required such a careful process. 'Shows how much I know,' she thought nonchalantly as she rested her chin in the palm of her hand.

He then piled the cotton pieces into a neat dome shape. The small twigs were then settled around the cotton. Slamming two jagged stones against each other three times, he ignited the cotton dome with a spark. A tiny flame was born. He gently blew into the tiny flame, nursing it with the oxygen of his breath to build the spark. Satisfied, Connor occasionally nursed the flame with his breath. Once the kindling was immersed in the small flame, a slow process continued with the addition of the branches.

Eventually, Connor's patience had paid off. The blonde woman's eyes widened at the fire, watching its birth unfold before her eyes. It danced wildly from its source of life, the tips licking the air in hopes of touching the ceiling. She smiled at him, and yet he desisted from looking at her face. She was discouraged by this observation, her eyelids lowering with sadness. However, the blonde woman figured that he was probably still embarrassed by his abrupt reaction to their first kiss. 'He just doesn't know, that's all. It's not you. He doesn't think you're disgusting, so stop believing such things. He doesn't care about what you did for a living.'

The pair sat by the fire in silence for the next twenty minutes. MaryLynn was finishing off the dried berries and nuts lying atop the remainder of the napkin in her lap. The strips of seasoned, dried meat remained untouched.

"Connor, you should have the dried meat that Madam packed for me. You haven't eaten all day!"

"I am fine," he declined politely, poking at the fire with a spare stick to keep the embers alive.

"I insist, Connor. You are not going through the rest of the day on an empty stomach. Please, eat the dried meat. I don't even want to eat it, really. Please? I won't accept 'no' for an answer."

He finally accepted the offer, finding her pout and furrowed eyebrows irresistible. MaryLynn's hands him the strips of dried meat, a smile gracing her lips knowing that he was going to eat at least something on this trip.

Connor's eye contact remained limited as he ate the dried meat quietly. He spoke only when necessary, differing from their chatter before the storm.

"Hopefully this storm is temporary," he remarked, nodding his head toward the mouth of the cave. "By this point, we will arrive at the manor by night."

"That is fine by me," MaryLynn assures, popping the last berry into her mouth. "Connor..."

Her speech had broken into a pause, her facial features scrunching with worry. She couldn't ignore the kiss they had shared, and it seemed that it had affected his interaction, or lack thereof, with her.

"I'm sorry if I made you..._uncomfortable_ earlier today. The moment was...I was...I felt..."

"_I_ should apologize," Connor interjected, meeting her worried gaze fully.

"You silly man, you shouldn't apologize for that. I forced it on you."

"No," he said. "No, I…"

He struggled to speak, his mouth opening and closing. He stared at the fire, hoping to find the words best suited for this situation. He refused to look at the blonde woman when all that he could feel was his insecurity swelling over his troubles with intimacy. MaryLynn was concerned, and he felt that it was his fault that she took the blame for his reaction of pulling away from her warmth.

"I apologize for my... lack of…_experience_," Connor managed to speak in between pauses.

"You don't need to apologize for that," she assured repeatedly with open palms at her sides. "I'm very grateful for you. It seems I was _very _grateful."

She laughed nervously at her last statement, desperately trying to smooth out the situation. This was so alien compared to a session where all that was left to deal with was the money and a terse "goodbye." It was truly an unexpected moment with a real person whose intentions were just as genuine as his constant anxiety over his lack of social grace.

"Ummm," MaryLynn hums, trying to select her words carefully. "Connor, has any girl kissed you before?"

"Yes," he answered after a moment or two.

"Have _you_ kissed a girl?"

"No."

"I don't understand."

Connor sighed aloud, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I have been kissed before. In my village, there was a girl who had been fond of me, I guess. I don't know why, honestly. I was no different than I was when we were merely five years of age. She kissed me during a game of hide-and-seek. I was only twelve years of age at that time, so I ran off, embarrassed and bewildered by the affection. When I was fifteen years of age, a woman had kissed my cheek for luck. That was you, MaryLynn."

MaryLynn grinned to herself, fondly recalling a younger version of Connor with a mop of dark hair covering his eyes, his limbs so gangly compared to his currently built frame.

"Again, I ran off," Connor continued, his eyes downcast with shame. "Over the years, women have..._shown_ me their gratitude when chasing off taxmen rather than _told _me. I would not return the affection, excusing myself to continue my mission. I am much too overwhelmed by _certain reactions_ that I experience."

He spoke the last sentence quickly as if the words were deadly if spoken aloud. Of course, words were not entirely deadly like the piercing of a heart with a sharpened dagger. However, they were like pins pricking into his stomach and heart as he uttered them.

"So," sighed MaryLynn, coming to a conclusion. "I'm the first woman you have kissed in return?"

The Native assassin nodded slowly. His eyes shifted upward to her face before returning to the fire. She could see that his dark eyes were wide, his pupils dilated.

"You must think I am terrible, unpleasantly inexperienced," Connor fretted over his insecurity. "I'm sure you have kissed better able men."

"I don't care about that, Connor. I think it's refreshing. Your innocence and all."

"You make it sound as if I'm still an adolescent," he pouted, cocking an eyebrow at the perceived insult.

"I don't mean to. People experience this side of themselves at different times in their life. You are pure, and I respect that. Believe me, you haven't the slightest clue how much I envy that purity."

"I don't understand why you feel this way. I suppose the phrase, 'To each his own,' is appropriate. I am happy that it was you that I have kissed in return."

The blonde woman's eyes narrowed as her smile warmed significantly. 'He meant your skill; not you, you fool.' The monsters in her head refused to give her the chance to embrace the tender moment. Negative thoughts were often the most difficult to vanquish from one's mind. It was as if another person existed in the mind, waiting to strike down any comforting emotion. Perhaps its purpose was protection from disappointment in trusting another person. However, this purpose was a harmful one, conditioning a pessimistic outlook on life that is more than capable of disabling a person's will to live. Regardless, MaryLynn was much too tired to dismiss the negative thoughts. Her warm smile faltered to a bittersweet expression, her blue eyes dimming as they slowly trailed to the side.

"I would not have wanted anyone else to trust," Connor continued to confess, leaning forward in hopes of making his words even more authentic to the suddenly distant woman. His vulnerability was at risk of being exposed at an uncomfortable degree, but he would not desist in trying to reach his dear friend.

Like any new territory, he would strive to understand how it functions, overcome the obstacles, and smooth out his own doubts in order to reach the end goal. She was a vast forest littered with weeping willows, concealing every piece of her unique personality and hidden secrets from his view. Over time, he will reach her, gently pushing away the metaphorical branches of blooms that she so coveted.

"You are so sweet to me," said MaryLynn in a quiet voice, her eyes almost dismissive in her refusal to look at the Native assassin's face across the way. "The best friend that I ever had. I'm glad that I could help."

She seemed sad in her voluntary distance. This kiss did not appear to phase her as much as it had phased Connor. 'Does she think of me as a client? Just curious?' Connor was bemused by her behavior, and began to pedantically question the situation. 'I _kissed_ her! I kiss with _intention_…I think I love her. Does she see this, or does she not take me seriously? Is she ignorant of companionship because of her past? This is going to be most difficult in telling her how I feel. Showing my intentions may not be specific enough. She will just misinterpret my affections and push me away. I can already feel her begin to push away.'

He gazed at her downturned face, watching as her eyes focused on the stone ground. Her face was an open book revealing any and every emotion on those rosy lips; those pale cheeks; those big blue eyes with heavy eyelids hooding them. Even if the blonde woman attempted to mask the thoughts and emotions swimming in her head, she had failed to fool the Native assassin's sharp senses. He furrowed his brows, his lips slightly downturned with determination. 'Just do not discard me as a client. See me as something more.'

The rest of the time in the cave was spent storm-watching. The fire had lasted about an hour and a half. By then, Connor smothered the last of the flames with some dirt he had collected from just outside the mouth of the cave. MaryLynn had been resting for the past forty minutes, leaving him to his thoughts. Her body curled up in Connor's coat on her side, resting on her forearm as a pillow. He watched how peaceful she had looked as he remained awake. She had insisted beforehand that he sleep as well, but Connor had refused to.

"I will remain awake for safety," he had reasoned with her. "Animals are unpredictable. I'll sleep tonight."

He was captured by the manner in which the assassin hood had covered her eyes, blonde waves poking out and curling around the edges of the white material. He smirked to himself as he reclined onto his back, cradling the back of his head in cupped palms. 'She would be an awful assassin,' he mused, his smirk never faltering. 'She would apologize profusely after killing a target. Perhaps she would even bandage her enemies.' It wasn't in MaryLynn's bones to kill another, even if said other attempted to kill a part of her soul. He admired this peaceful resistance about her. Some would say that her open heart and no need to retaliate were flaws. Connor saw no such thing. She was free of anger, unlike _him_. Her heart never died. Sometimes, Connor feared that his own heart might die from the constant distrust of others, the anger that would blind him in battle. Somehow, MaryLynn eased his fear of this. 'Do not turn into me,' he silently prayed, his smirk fading to a serious expression. 'Stay loving, keep your heart open... for me.'

After another hour had passed, the storm subsided. He pushed his upper body forward to rise into a seated position. Once on his feet, Connor walked around the fire pit to reach a slumbering MaryLynn. Soft huffs of air escaped her parted lips. With a gentle nudge of his hand on her shoulder, he awakened the lethargic blonde woman. She mumbled incoherent nothings to herself, staring up at the man with faded eyes.

"Come on," he whispered. "We can leave now."

She nodded once, slowly, painfully trying to lift herself up from the stone ground. It was not exactly ideal for her back and sides. Connor offered his large hands to help her up, pulling her by the hands to her feet. Their bodies were in close contact once more, her feet fumbling from the grogginess of sleep. He steadied her, his hands leaving her own to grasp her forearms. MaryLynn departs quickly from the contact, her behavior bashful and reserved. He exhaled deeply through flared nostrils, his lips thinning as he tried to swallow emotion. She was scared. But _why_?

No matter. A safe trek to the manor was more important now.

MaryLynn had returned the coat to the Native assassin before exiting the large crevice in the mountain. Tying her black handkerchief scarf around her damp head, the blonde woman kept to herself for some time once they embarked on what was left of their journey. Connor respected her wishes as he picked away at the battered leather of his dark brown gloves.

* * *

A convoy came into view several feet ahead of the path. A flash of red could be seen in front of the wagon at a certain angle. Connor's pupils dilated as he spotted red coat soldiers leading the convoy to what was most likely a fort he had not liberated just yet. Connor was almost relieved to have something interrupt the silence hovering between him and his dear friend.

He grasped MaryLynn's wrist in his hand and pulled her aside roughly into the bushes, pulling her down with him into a crouching position.

"What was _that_ for?" she sputtered, her eyes darting wildly for a possible threat. "What is it?"

"You did not see it?"

"The wagon? Yes, I saw the wagon."

"Clearly you did not see the men in red coats," he kept his deep voice low in volume. "That is a convoy headed directly to a fort. Most of those goods were obtained in underhanded manners. They cannot reach the fort. I'm sorry, but I must handle this situation. Remain here behind this tree until you hear me tell you otherwise."

"Please be careful."

A subtle smile tugged at the right corner of his lips.

"Don't worry. I have done this before."

Connor immediately began to scale up the trunk, disappearing into the maze of branches and wet leaves. MaryLynn covered her head from the onset of water droplets from the leaves, grumbling under her breath.

Before she knew it, the rattling of branches could be heard, followed by the unsettling cry of a man struck down to his death. Her eyes widened, her heart ceasing to beat for a moment or two.

She heard a series of grunts and growls, the piercing sheen of blades clacking. The screams had shaken her to the bone, the gurgling of blood causing her stomach to churn. She couldn't bear to watch him kill those men, even if they were of British authority. It was brutal enough to listen to the noises of death.

Once the screaming had stopped, she still could not feel the blood return to her face and hands. They were chilled from the fear and disturbance striking her body with paralysis. She was much too horrified to look from behind the tree at the sight that awaited her.

"It's safe," Connor called out to her.

The blonde woman could not move her body, her breathing shallow.

"MaryLynn? Come out!"

Hesitantly leaving her post behind the tree, she came face to face with the bodies decorating the crimson painted grass. They surrounded Connor's feet like a hellish halo. He was dressed in their blood, the final screams from their slit throats clinging to his being like insects. Blood had painted his face and the upper portion of his clothing. For a moment, MaryLynn could not believe that this was the same man she harbored affection for. Her hand clutched her chest at the sight before her as she fought to regain her breath.

"Did you not hear me? Are you alright?"

His voice was rougher, his eyes almost too clear and intense as they stared at her. She felt scared, but her subconscious mind would not allow her to accept such a truth. No, not about Connor…

"I'm sorry about the bodies. I will finish as quickly as possible. At least we now have a horse."

MaryLynn nodded frantically, at a loss for words. She almost could not process his words, the splatter of blood on his face much too distracting.

Connor sheathed the hidden blade with a flick of his wrist as he made his way to the wagon. Pulling open the flaps of the wagon, he came to find the horse rider cowering in a corner, pleading and crying.

"Please! Let me go!" cried the horse rider, his palms pressed together in a prayer for his life. "I-I was bribed into this! P-p-please, sir, spare me! I am n-not affiliated with those men!"

"Get out of my sight," Connor growled from deep within his throat. "Forget what you have seen."

The man clawed his way out of the opposite opening of the wagon, jumping over the horse to dash off into the woods. MaryLynn felt terrible for the man. He may have needed the money for his family for all Connor knew. What were the consequences if the man had declined the bribe from the red coats?

"You know, you didn't have to scare off that poor man," she voiced her opinion, slightly nervous as she anticipated what his reaction would be.

"It is no concern of mine why he chose to aid the red coats," he dismissed the situation completely as he rummaged through what goods were kept in the wagon. "Lexington is not too far from here. He will just run off to safety there."

The way he killed those men had disturbed her. One minute, he was a kind and gentle man. The next minute, he was a ruthless killer without batting an eyelash at the spill of bloodshed.

"It is my duty to stop convoys from reaching British forts," he reinforced his reasoning to the blonde woman.

Slowly but surely, his killer instincts began to settle down. He realized that MaryLynn was startled by what had just unfolded….by _him_. A subtle pang of guilt sank deep within his stomach. He did not know how to erase this scene so that she could regain a sense of tranquility. Her eyes were darting, only settling on him for a few seconds before looking to something else. With not much else to do, Connor rubbed his face clean of the blood with the back of his left coat sleeve.

"There," he breathed out. "Is this better? I'm sorry for my appearance. I understand this is not as familiar to you as it is to me."

MaryLynn nodded, her arms embracing her waist for comfort. Merely cleaning his face did not improve the situation. She could still see the blood staining his copper skin. She wondered if the blood truly washed off his skin after a kill.

"I just.." she attempted to speak, her throat dry. "..I have never seen you actually kill. I knew you did. However, to _see _it.."

"I understand," Connor interjected as he lifted one body at a time to toss into the bushes.

He figured that if he cleared the path of the bodies, then maybe the blonde woman would feel more comfortable walking out to the wagon. However, his attempts to ease her memory of this killing were futile, no matter what he did to cleanse the path. Once he was finished tossing aside corpses like long forgotten rag dolls, Connor had motioned for MaryLynn to come meet him at the wagon. She acceded with a quick nod of her head. With raised eyebrows and downturned lips, she cautiously stepped around the ground to avoid splatters of blood as if avoiding stepping on volcanic lava. The guilt in Connor's stomach swelled further. 'Can she handle me, the way I am?' he questioned himself as he hoisted himself up onto the rider's seat. 'She knows that I am an assassin, even if she knows nothing of the Brotherhood. Hopefully, I won't have to kill near the manor. The less she sees and the less she knows, the better.'

Finally, after a rather sporadic pantomime of raised arms and wide steps, the blonde woman reached the passenger's seat, lifting herself up to sit beside Connor. Gathering the reins in his hands, the Native assassin looked down at his hands. He noticed the physical distance between him and MaryLynn in his peripheral vision. She was still frightened, but it was noted that she attempted to brave the sight. He sighed deeply, having not experienced such guilt concerning a kill. He was not regretful of the kill, mind you. He was regretful of the decision to kill when a dear friend was close by to witness it all. He cursed to himself in Mohawk, shaking his head.

"What did you say?" questioned the blonde woman, not recognizing the language.

"Nothing. Umm…" he hummed as he collected his words. "This will make the remainder of the journey more comfortable. We will be arriving at the manor soon."

She merely nodded, nervously smiling at Connor before she looked down at her lap. Thinning his lips, Connor flicked the reins with a terse "hyah!" to signal the horse to follow the determined path.

The pair continued their way to the manor in silence. Both of them were tired from the day's events. The plush coolness of a mattress would be the most splendid thing in the world right about now.

* * *

She watched the grey skies slowly turn to black, the sun's setting concealed by bloated, gloomy clouds. She had barely seen the sun since early this morning. For the most part, the skies had been painted grey during this journey.

Eventually, they reached an opening in the forest that revealed a large manor down below. MaryLynn gasped quietly at the lovely sight of the faded, red brick manor. Despite its age, she found it charming from a distance, framed with verdant trees and shrubs. The bottom floor windows were illuminated in a golden glow of candlelight.

"That's it below, isn't it?" she questioned aloud.

"Yes. We have tried to restore what we could of the manor. It's rather old. When I first arrived here as an adolescent, it was falling apart. The cobwebs would lurk in corners and the furniture bore this thick blanket of dust."

"That poor man. He probably couldn't do it all alone. Thank goodness he had you."

Connor nodded once, adjusting the lip of his hood.

"I only did what he asked of me," he downplayed his kindness to the former master assassin. "It was best to restore the manor or else it would soon enough fall apart. The property would lose its value."

"Nonsense. You did a good thing. Don't dismiss that side of yourself. No one forced you to help Achilles. You chose to."

"I try to do what I think is right."

"You can't just say 'thank you' to a compliment, can you," giggled the blonde woman, the waves of her hair bouncing as she shook her head.

"No," Connor mumbled to himself.

Descending the path at an easy pace, Connor took the horse and wagon to the stables near the manor. He left the horse and wagon at a stable off to the far right, the brown steed settled in comfortably and free of the reins. MaryLynn slid off the passenger's seat, dusting off her emerald skirt. Looking across the way at the Davenport Manor, she began to realize that the moment to confront a new home was just minutes away. Her heart began to race. For no conscious reason whatsoever, her breath shortened, leaving her lips in a wheezing sound.

She panicked, exposed for Connor to see. The change had come, and she was not entirely sure if she was ready.

"I-I-I can't," she sputtered, her hands shaking. "I'm n-n-not ready. I c-can't, I _can't_."

He tried to calm her down, leaving the horse's side.

"You don't even know how the situation will turn out," he firmly told her." Breathe."

"I can't. Not now."

She shook her head frantically, wringing her hands as her breath quickened by the second. Connor became frustrated, his palms open and facing the blonde woman in a desperate plea for her to calm down. It was a long day, and they were much too close to the manor for MaryLynn to give up now.

"You _can't_ or _won't_?" Connor challenged her, hoping to ignite a different, more proactive emotion in her.

"What?"

The startled look in her eyes faded altogether then.

"I understand fear, but this is stopping you from even _trying_ something new. You believe that you don't deserve a nice life. I think you're _afraid_ of a nice life."

"Afraid of a nice life?" MaryLynn reiterated, the panic settling down as another emotion flushed her cheeks and knit her eyebrows tightly. In its place was a spark of anger. "You have _no clue_ what I have been through in life. I will go when I am ready!"

"You cannot _stay out here_!"

Apparently, Connor's temper began to spark as well.

Patience was wearing thin amongst them. The claws were coming out, and neither individual was in the mood to hold back their sharpened tongues.

"Watch me!" the blonde woman spat.

Where was this coming from? He had tried to provoke her strong will in order to cancel out her panic. It worked, only to leave him dealing with a huffing, stubborn woman. She crossed her arms before her bosom, pouting as she jutted out her right hip. 'Pick _one _emotion, woman!' Connor craved to shout at her.

"Fine," he said through grit teeth, his fists squeezing tightly at his sides.

Without warning, the Native assassin lifted her up by the waist and swung her over his shoulder.

"What in the world?!" MaryLynn shrieked, the world suddenly upside down in her vision. "Put me down! Put me down _now_, you _brute_!"

"You are facing your fear, even if it requires me to carry you there."

"Stop!"

He discontinued engaging with her as she pounded her fists against his back, his quiver and arrows rattling with the force. As she persisted in her frenzy of shouted profanities and pounding fists, Connor mumbled heatedly, "I'm too tired for this."

Terry, the Scottish lumberjack, could be seen off in the distance, throwing out scraps for the family dog. Leaning his head back, he spotted Connor carrying a yelling woman up the stairs to the Davenport manor. The strange woman called him "every name in the book," so to speak. The Scottish lumberjack laughed heartedly at the site, a hand placed over his stomach.

"'ey, Connor!" shouted Terry. "Tha's not how you get yourself a wife!"

Connor could not hear him over MaryLynn's yelling. He ignored his friend for now.

On reaching the front door of the manor, he tightened his grip on her waist with one arm as his unoccupied hand quickly sought out the golden knob to open the door. As the ancient door creaked open, he called out into the manor, "Old man, I'm home!"

"You call him 'old man'? That's rude! Call him by his name!" MaryLynn scolded as the pounding of fists faltered. They were radiating with heat and pain.

The Native assassin sighed heavily once again, his frown deepening. Within a couple of minutes, Achilles made an appearance in the foyer with his cane, making his way to the front door. The foyer was illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight. The golden light had casted shadows, dancing upon the burgundy and gold rug on the floor. Achilles' wide-rimmed, dark hat was discarded, as well as his beloved beige coat. It was much too warm to wear heavy clothing, even when the sun had long set.

"What is all this commotion?" the old man inquired, clearly irritated. "You're being quite rude carrying that woman in that matter. She doesn't look injured."

"Rude? I am not rude!"

"Oh, yes you are!" shouted MaryLynn, trying to lift up her upper body by pressing her palms into Connor's back and pushing upward.

Achilles stroked the salt and pepper stubble upon his jaw as he exhaled slowly. He raised his eyebrows, his dark fingers leaving his jaw. His student had usually brought home with him bloodied clothing (which he had) and perhaps an animal or two. A woman? This was certainly a first for the young man. Of course, he had brought Myriam, the huntress, to the manor when found injured by rogue men. However, this blonde woman was clearly not injured, and she argued with Connor as if this was not the first time he had flared her temper. 'Ah haa,' a revelation blossomed in Achilles' mind. 'Best of luck to her in dealing with _him_.'

"Well," the old man began, "as lovely as her derrière is, I'd much rather introduce myself to her face if she is going to be living here."

Connor grumbled with a snarl, gently putting her down.

"Don't be frightened, my dear," Achilles calmly said as he took note of how shy and quiet she became in his presence. "I am Achilles Davenport, and it is my pleasure to welcome you to my home."

"Oh, Mister Davenport," MaryLynn said, lacing her fingers before her, "I will do everything I can to earn my stay. I can clean, I can cook-"

The old man chuckled, waving one dark hand in the air.

"Child, it is more than alright. Some help around the house is greatly appreciated, but do not feel that it is required."

"You were not as nice to me when I first arrived, old man," Connor commented, removing his white coat and tossing it aside on the floor. It was dirty to begin with and needed washing.

"You were an obnoxious brat banging on my door and climbing my house!" Achilles raised his voice. "She is polite and does not hesitate to yell at you. I approve."

Connor exhales through flared nostrils, all the while MaryLynn held in her amusement.

"Now, show her up to her bedroom upstairs. It is late, and I am much too tired. I'm off to bed. Goodnight to you both. It was a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss MaryLynn. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Mr. Davenport."

"Achilles will do just fine, my dear. Connor, don't leave that coat on my floor. If you're going to wash it, wash it now or leave it in your room for tomorrow morning."

"I will, I will," he insisted, sounding like an adolescent.

Connor motioned for MaryLynn to follow him up the staircase to her new bedroom as the old man made his way to the master bedroom down the hall on the first floor. Before ascending the staircase, Connor took possession of a lit candle from a side table and used it to light the way to the dark upper floor. MaryLynn followed him up the stairs, remaining two steps behind him. It was rather dark, but she could make out the intricate patterns in the grey paneled walls. The deep creaks from the floorboards alluded to just how old this manor was. In a sense, she appreciated its age. It was lived in, and memories of a family lingered in every piece of furniture and decoration. 'What kind of family did Achilles have? What happened to his family?'

Once MaryLynn was shown to her room, the Native assassin stepped aside for her to enter. It was a quaint bedroom with simple oak wood furniture, a four-poster bed with a pale blue spread, a vanity with three mirrors, and a small window with violet curtains. In front of the foot of the bed were her belongings from the brothel. Her heart was eased. This was not so bad after all. Something about this bedroom had comforted her.

"It's lovely," she whispered softly, walking to the center of the bedroom and turning around to face her dear friend.

"I hope you enjoy it," said Connor. "MaryLynn, I am sorry about my behavior."

"Please, don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I guess it was a long day, no? We're just tired."

Connor nodded, agreeing with her reasoning. He wanted to apologize again for the gruesome scene in the forest. However, he had figured that if MaryLynn did not bring up the subject, then it was best to keep mum.

"Really, it's alright. Thank you for doing all of this for me."

"Of course. My bedroom is across from your own. Should you need anything, please tell me. Sleep well."

"You too. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He handed her the candlestick, assuring her that he can obtain another. She thanked him, slowly the closing door as she watched him walk down the hallway. At the end of the day, despite his "profession," he was a good man to her. And yet, the vision of those bloodied corpses and gaping wounds haunted her mind. MaryLynn swallowed deeply to dismiss the nausea.

"Forget about it," she told herself. "It's in the past. Erase their bodies."

It was not as simple as she wanted to believe. MaryLynn occupied her senses with something else as she flopped down onto the bed. Lying on the mattress, she certainly enjoyed the spring! Oh, how lovely this felt on her tired, sore muscles! Stretching out her limbs, she hummed sweetly. Before preparing for bed, she recalled the letter she had tucked into her bodice.

Propping herself up on an elbow, MaryLynn pulled out Madam's letter from out of her black bodice. She was alone, an appropriate time to read and appreciate the letter from the beloved Scottish woman. She undid the tight folding of the letter and was met with small, cursive letters.

_Dearest MaryLynn, _

_I'm grateful for knowing how to write. Had I not been taught, I wouldn't be able to tell you what I am about to write to you. Consider yourself talented! Not many people can silence my loud mouth. _

_On the day I first brought you back to the Maverick, I saw a spark in you that refused to die. You may not have believed me if I had told you this. I knew you were sturdy and passionate. That bleeding heart of yours gets you into trouble, I'll say that! But, it makes you who you are. I know you will get a handle on your panic episodes. You're young, and you will become better able to handle unexpected events in life. As delicate as you can be, you are also made of iron. I would know. You lived under a roof with me for years! _

_I am proud of you, MaryLynn. You got out of here. Not many girls can say that and make a decent life. God blessed you, dear. I think He had also sent you Connor to take you to a better home. That boy is terribly troubled. Be careful. He comes with baggage. I don't have to know what his life was and is like to know this. I know you can handle him, though. But, as I have told you, be careful with Men of War. Your heart is precious, and I don't want it broken. _

_I guess I truly am a mother now! I never thought I would have children, but God made it so. You didn't spring from my loins, but I consider you my child. Now, to give away my child, it hurts very much. It's bittersweet, though. Don't worry about me. I know you are, but I figured that I should write that anyway. _

_If I could, I think I would go with you to that homestead community. However, my place is here at the Maverick brothel. My destiny is to watch over these lost girls. Knowing that I have seen off a former "Lost Girl," I know that I have succeeded in my destiny, and will continue to do so. I see a lot of myself in you. Maybe that's why I was drawn to you that day when I found you curled in a ball near a pile of crates. _

_I'm crying! I don't cry! _

_I love you dearly, Ms. MaryLynn Mortenson. I know you will live a proud life. There will never be another girl like you. Never. You are one of a kind. _

_Sincerely, _

_Euphegenia Douglas _++

_Madam_

The letter was decorated in the blonde woman's tears. A few letters were slightly blobbed from the plummeting tears. A hand was placed over her quivering lips as her heart burst with the utmost love and adoration.

Over and over, MaryLynn's blue eyes scanned over the older woman's birth name. She had never known Madam's real name until now. To see her name in writing was an intimate gesture for the older woman. She had opened her heart to MaryLynn in this letter, forever immortalized in black ink.

She pressed the letter to her chest as she said Madam's birth name again and again, a bittersweet smile stretching out her lips.

"Euphegenia Douglas. Euphegenia Douglas. How I will always love you."

* * *

Connor furiously attempted to wash away the blood from his coat down at the lake. He had already transported the goods from the wagon to the basement before setting off to clean his coat. He was embarrassed once again by the memory of the blonde woman's terrified face. He had hoped to clean the coat for tomorrow. Perhaps if she saw a clean coat, she would forget about the Assassin and see the gentle man once more. She won't have to be reminded of the raid.

Unfortunately, the faded blood stains proved that it was hopeless to remove the stains completely. Ellen, the seamstress, would be better suited to mend this problem. However, it was much too late to consult her for her services at this time of night. Connor was plagued by the illness of guilt in his stomach, wishing he had just brushed aside that _one convoy_ to avoid MaryLynn witnessing him in action. He knew that she was petrified of him in those few moments after the raid. She would never admit to this. She would never hurt his feelings. But it was true. He felt like a fool.

Perspiration seeped at his temples and the back of his neck as his washing quickened to an unbearable speed.

"Please, wash away," the Native assassin pleaded. "Please."

It was hopeless. The blood could not be washed away, just as the petrified look on his dear friend's face could not be erased from Connor's mind. She was afraid of him. It was the last thing he had ever wanted for her to feel towards him. Although it was now in the past, he could not forget her face. He could not forget those wide blue eyes threatening to shatter in his presence. He was determined to smooth it over by keeping mum about the Assassin Order, and any other business he had to attend to involving death.

Connor hung his head low as he ceased his washing of the white coat. His knees were soaked from kneeling in the water. The suds of the soap bar had saturated the coat, but how much of the blood could be washed away? He persisted once again, rubbing the material with the soap bar fervently, furiously.

"Wash away. Wash away."

The past was never left where it should be. As far as Connor was concerned, the past would always haunt him. His failures would always haunt him.

* * *

++: The inspiration for Madam's first name actually came from one of my favorite childhood films, **Mrs. Doubtfire**. Every time I wrote Madam's dialogue, I would hear the voice of Robin Williams impersonating this fictional, old Scottish woman, whose full name was Euphegenia Doubtfire. I honestly don't know why, but that is the voice I imagined coming out of Madam's mouth! Of course, Madam is much more rugged and foul-mouthed than Mrs. Doubtfire. So, I decided to name her after Mrs. Doubtfire. The surname Douglas is an Anglicized form of _Dubhghlas_, which means _"dark river."_ Madam is very private and does not share with many people her regrets, her loves, her pain, etc. She does not even reveal her real name to her girls, so I thought this surname was appropriate. A woman who laughs and cusses, yet never removes her emotional armor for anyone.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry it took so long for this update! I've been hitting a large, brick wall of Writer's Block. **I am taking a break from this story for a while, and focusing on my original work.**** However, I am not abandoning this story! **I have neglected my original work for some time. I just need a break from this story for a while, and hope to return with a fresh mind to start again. Until then, I will also be cleaning up previous chapters. Minor changes, really, but I will be editing.

Anyway, I was very excited to reveal Madam's real name! I added the footnote because I wanted to share with you how I imagine her to sound like and what inspired me to mold her. MaryLynn's panic in confronting the manor was sudden, especially when Connor triggered her anger. Please note that this was as realistic as I could make it. I am drawing from my own experience in struggling with panic attacks over the years, and I know that sometimes I can be snapped out of the episode with something that ignites my anger or passion. Connor's darker side is emerging, and MaryLynn is beginning to see the split faces of him: the ruthless Assassin and the gentle Mohawk boy who will do anything to make her smile. Witnessing a killing is very frightening.

Hope you enjoyed Connor dragging her to the manor. ;)

Thank you once more for your undying support and encouragement. You all are such a delight to chat with and your input is helpful. I write for entertainment purposes, and when I read that someone is having a good time reading this story, I am beyond thrilled and very happy. I may not be perfect, but that's ok. I love to write for the sake of writing.

Have a lovely week, everyone. I love you, and I hope to return to this story with a fresh mind! Thank you for understanding and for your patience! _Read and Review ~~_

~take care


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